TLC
by Cat Jenkins
Summary: When Hotch falls ill, Rossi steps up to take care of his best friend. Weakened Aaron still has broken bits of his past poking out at painful angles. But he and Jack couldn't be in better hands. A simple portrait of friendship.
1. The Sneeze That Shook the World

**Breaking some of my own rules. #1-I don't do author's notes. So...here's my one and only author's note. **

**Got requests to write a story where Hotch and Jack are sick and Rossi cares for them. Also got requests for a return to the non-AU, non-telepathy world of 'A Friend in Need.'**

**Rule #2-Posting daily updates. Love writing for this site, but need to do other stuff, too. So, chapters will appear on a less regular basis than I'd like.**** Still, I hope the tale of sick Hotch and Jack brings some entertainment or comfort or escape to any reader who stumbles upon it...**

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The first explosive sneeze barely registered on David Rossi.

On some level he knew it had come from Hotch's office, loud enough to make itself known through the adjoining wall. But Rossi was so mired down in his end-of-week paperwork, the sound didn't disturb his concentration.

But by the fourth one, it was impossible to ignore.

Frowning, Rossi pushed back from his desk. Opening his office door, he stood listening in the entrance.

Another powerful nasal blast echoed through the BAU. J.J. came to her door and stepped out on the catwalk, giving Rossi a concerned look. Down in the bullpen, Morgan, Prentiss and Reid had stopped their own journeys through hard-copy hell to cast disbelieving glances up toward the corner office…Hotch's lair.

The next sneeze actually elicited some grins and head shakes. When the following one was particularly wet and sounded as though it got crossed somehow with a burp or a cough, the reactions were more vocal.

"Ewwwwww…" Prentiss and J.J. both curled their lips and wrinkled their noses, rendering feminine judgment.

"Oh, man. That was…_beautiful_." Morgan's opinion reflected the masculine appreciation of strange, bodily noises.

Reid looked worried, running statistics quietly through his brain about incubation periods for the most prevalent strains of the most common viruses, and trying to remember if he'd been particularly close to Hotch at any point during the last three to four days.

Rossi simply raised his brows and moved toward Hotch's office door. Tapping twice, he opened it without waiting for a response. "Coming down with a cold, Aaron? Or maybe you're allergic to, oh…I dunno…_Strauss_?!" He'd meant the comment as a joke, but when the Unit Chief raised his eyes, humor died under his rheumy glare.

" 'M okay… 'm okay… 'm o'…." Hotch never got to finish his trademark mantra of denial. The sneeze that attacked him nearly unseated him.

Rossi gave a small, sympathetic sigh. "Sure you are. You're an absolute delight." He moved to stand beside his friend. Looking down at him, he wondered how someone sitting could still look so unsteady. "Why did you even bother coming in, if you're sick?"

"Not sick." Hotch followed by clearing phlegm from his throat with a noise that Morgan would have applauded with awe, but would have sent Prentiss and J.J. diving for cover.

"Liar." Rossi watched a flush and a light sheen of perspiration creep over his boss' face. He couldn't be sure if it was due to being caught in such a blatant lie, or fever. "Seriously, Aaron. What's so important it couldn't wait until you were feeling better? Huh?"

Hotch's eyes were full of sad betrayal for the body that was letting him down when he answered. "I didn' feel bad 'til a couple hours ago. Hit…_really_ fast."

Rossi looked him up and down, assessing the situation. _Flu. And if I don't get him out of here, we'll all have it. Might be too late already._ He gathered up Hotch's briefcase and coat. He picked up the rapidly-emptying box of tissues on the edge of the desk and pushed them against Hotch's chest, forcing him to take them. "You'll need these. Now…" With a ginger touch that bespoke reluctance to come into contact with viral plague, Rossi took the nape of Hotch's suit jacket between thumb and forefinger. He pulled up on it until the man took the hint and stood. "…I'm taking you home and putting you to bed."

The responding sound might have been muffled English, or, more likely, some unholy noise of protest coming from Hotch's digestive system.

Rossi marched his friend all the way around the perimeter on the catwalk instead of taking him directly through the bullpen. He was hoping to avoid contagion by keeping the diseased Unit Chief well away from the rest of the team. As for himself…

_I had a flu shot. I've been good about that for years now. Maybe I'll be spared._ He resisted the urge to cross himself when another sneeze tore Hotch from his grip. The ailing man stumbled from the force, fetching up against a wall.

They reached the door accessing the rest of the Bureau just in time to run into Garcia, on her way to spend her break with her favorite group of profilers. One look at Hotch's hanging head and defeated posture clued her in.

"Ohhhh….Sir…." The eyes behind their striped aqua and green frames brimmed with compassion. "Ohhhh…."

Rossi hustled Hotch past the tech analyst. "Don't touch him, Garcia. Don't even _breathe_ around him, if you can help it."

She clamped a be-ringed hand over her mouth; an attempt to keep infected air currents from targeting her. Once the two men had passed, Garcia turned her look of wide-eyed horror toward her compatriots down in the bullpen. It had to be bad to take their leader down.

"He is _really_ sick!"

Prentiss nodded, turning back to her full inbox. "Well, at least it seems to be respiratory and not stomach flu. That's the worst."

No sooner were the words out of her mouth than Rossi came bursting back through the swinging, glass doors. He snagged the nearest small waste basket and exited again, moving fast down the hall and out of sight.

Concerned glances were exchanged.

J.J. shook her head. "Poor Hotch. I hope he isn't throwing up in front of everyone. He'd hate that."

Morgan shrugged. "Who wouldn't? Bu-u-u-t, I think he's probably past the point of caring about much of anything." His next words were for Prentiss. "Guess stomach flu's not entirely off the table."

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After the bout of vomiting, Rossi pushed Hotch into the nearest men's room.

While the Unit Chief rinsed out his mouth and splashed cool water over his face, hanging onto the sink for support, Rossi cleaned out the waste basket. It had been a close thing, but he'd managed to get it to Hotch in time. Still, several agents and staff had seen the leader of the BAU's best team ralphing his guts out. His stoic veneer tarnished, Hotch looked truly miserable.

Rossi felt for his friend. It was one thing to be physically ill. It was quite another to feel humiliated. And while most people would only commiserate, Aaron Hotchner held himself to a higher standard. He abhorred showing weakness of any sort. For a man with a soft heart and a sweet spirit, he presented himself with the strength and solidity of an iron ingot. Losing his lunch in the middle of the hall, in front of an audience no less, struck at his spirit just as surely as whatever ailment he'd contracted struck at his body.

As Hotch leaned over the sink, trying to breathe past nasal congestion, Rossi thinned his lips in helpless sympathy and put a gentle hand on his back.

"We need to get you home, Aaron."

After a few deep breaths, the weary head lifted; glazed eyes regarded Rossi. "Can't. Told Jack I'd go get 'im."

Rossi's brows rose. "You really want Jack to be around you when you're like this?" The only response was a gusty sigh, but the look on the sick man's face made Rossi think there was more to the story. "Tell me where Jack is and _I'll_ get him. I'll take him to his aunt's, okay?"

Hotch pushed up off the ceramic edge of the sink. Standing tall with only a slight sway, he shook his head. "Already there. Got measles. Promised I'd pick 'im up…bring 'im home for th' week'nd.

Rossi's mouth quirked up at one corner in a rueful display of humor. "You're not thinking straight, Aaron. If the poor kid's got measles, you don't want to infect him with flu, too."

Watching his sick friend, he saw a sad, slow parody of an 'A-ha!' moment as Hotch realized the truth of what he was being told. It registered in slumped posture and another mighty sneeze, followed by a moan.

Rossi patted his back again. "So the Hotchner boys are down and out for the next few days. I'll call Jessica. She'll explain it to Jack. And then we'll get you to bed where you belong. Sound good?"

Hotch hugged his arms around himself, pulling in, trying to hide feeling weak. Rossi recognized the pose and the intent behind it. He readied himself for a certain amount of argument.

He was almost relieved when a truly alarming noise, that appeared to emanate from the proximity of the Unit Chief's stomach, growled its way into the restroom silence. Hotch had been about to speak. But the sound was far more eloquent than anything he could have offered.

Finally defeated, he let Rossi lead him out of the men's room, and down to the garage.


	2. Broken Promise

Rossi maneuvered Hotch all the way to the garage before encountering further resistance.

Walking with the truncated steps of a zombie, clutching his nearly empty box of tissues, Hotch made a purposeful path for his car. Rossi arrested his movement with, again, a grip on the nape of his suit jacket. The Unit Chief looked a little bedraggled, being lifted by his scruff.

"No." Rossi pulled him around, indicating what he considered the only acceptable destination: his BMW. "You're not driving. One sneeze and you'll take out an entire lane of oncoming traffic."

Hotch snuffled wetly. " 'kay. Jus' take me 'ome."

Rossi shook his head. "No. You're bunking at my place." Hotch's long-suffering look conveyed his opinion of that proposal. Rossi tried to make it sound more palatable.

"Look, you're in no shape to do anything but fall into bed. We'll go to my place. You'll get some rest. I'll look in on you from time to time, and…if you're a good boy, and if you feel better tomorrow…_then_ I'll take you home." Rossi ducked his head a little to make eye contact with his increasingly dragging friend. "Deal?"

He interpreted the deep, rib-splitting cough as a 'yes'.

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Hotch hunched himself into a miserable, little ball up against the window of the passenger seat during the ride to Rossi's mansion. Having given in to the whole plan of being cared for, the iron will that had kept him in denial, kept him moving, had finally crumbled. Hotch let himself wallow in his symptoms.

During the twenty minute drive, he catalogued them.

Sneezing. Explosive and bone-shaking.

Nasal congestion that felt as though it were moving down into his chest by heavy, wet, breath-stealing increments.

Nausea. The groans and exclamations of co-workers who'd seen him in the hallway, head buried in the wastebasket Rossi had thankfully provided, still haunted him.

Fever. Sweat was breaking out on his body. The only relief was the chill that usually followed.

Muscle aches. They'd been the first thing to hit; the first sign that something was wrong. He'd been sitting at his desk, just fine…and then he'd stood up to reach a book in the case lining the wall behind him. Head to toe, it felt as though someone had worked him over with a mallet and then added finishing touches with a sledge hammer. The aches had made him hide in his office, praying it would all go away. But the other symptoms had gathered anyway, joining forces with evil intent.

Cough. It was a relatively new development, but promised to torment what little breath the nasal congestion allowed him.

Irritated eyes. They were becoming more watery and light-sensitive by the moment. At least, in his irascible, unhappy mood, that's what it seemed like. He raised his head to check, looking out at the dull, overcast sky. The muted light lanced into his brain, making him wince. The motion of looking up clued him in to another new aspect of his developing illness.

Dizziness.

Hotch lowered his spinning head and moaned at the unfairness, the injustice of it all.

Jack needed him. He'd promised they'd spend the weekend together, monitoring the progress of his son's red rash. For some reason, the boy found the word 'measles' inherently funny. He'd told his worried father that it sounded like an invasion of tiny, angry aliens…a cross between mice and weasels.

Despite his concern, Hotch had laughed. He'd also teared up a little.

Whenever _he'd_ been ill as a boy, he'd tried to hide it. Drawing attention, any kind at all, had been a dangerous business in the Hotchner household. He'd tried to forget most of the experiences that had formed him, but he did recall having a number of hiding places where he'd retreat until either his father wasn't around to punish him for getting sick, or the worst of whatever malady that gripped him had passed.

He remembered mumps, and colds, and mono, and innumerable injuries at his father's hands. But he'd never contracted measles. Even when his friends had been laid up, their bodies itching with spots, and he'd gone over to keep them company…_What a nice child Mr. Hotchner's boy is…so considerate to visit our Johnny!_...little knowing that Mr. Hotchner's boy would do anything, risk anything, to stay away from his own home…Even when young Aaron had exposed himself over and over to the disease, measles had passed him by.

One of the few torments that had.

So now, feeling sick, and weak, and unworthy, Hotch hated that he wouldn't be there for Jack.

It hurt worse than any of the symptoms ravaging his body. It hurt worse than hearing 'Is that Aaron Hotchner?' while he'd been ears-deep in the wastebasket, vomiting, while Rossi held onto his shoulders.

He curled in on himself tighter, and, in a dazed return to the rules of his upbringing, tried to hide his distress.

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Rossi glanced over at the man in the passenger seat and expelled a long, sympathetic breath. Hotch seemed to be trying to burrow into the corner where the seat met the door. Even with the luxurious construction of this top-of-the-line BMW sedan, Rossi didn't imagine huddling against leather-padded steel could be very comforting. When a small whimper escaped his friend, Rossi reached a hand over and patted the back turned toward him.

"Hang on, Aaron. You'll feel better when you can lie down and rest." Another thought occurred to him that, as a car owner, made him a little nervous. "And if you need the wastebasket again, it's right near your feet. Okay?"

" 'M fine."

Rossi shook his head at the stubbornness. "Of course you are. That little noise you just made must mean you're the picture of health and happiness."

Disturbed by being misinterpreted; wanting to clarify that he was distressed over abandoning Jack, not selfishly pitying himself, Hotch raised his dizzy head. "Don' un'erstan', Dave." Any further explanation was cut off by a sneeze that Rossi was pretty sure left its mark on his cordovan leather interior.

He sighed. "Well, you can explain everything after I get you to bed….and you've had a little nap…maybe some cold medicine…soup…hot tea…Vicks VapoRub…"

Rossi pulled into his driveway, trying to remember what else he might already have on hand that could help a man weather a few days of illness.

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Ordinarily, Rossi enjoyed the feeling of opulence he got walking into the foyer of his mansion. He'd earned it with hard work, persistence, and, admittedly, a hefty dose of good luck. And the journey hadn't been all rainbows and roses. He felt he'd earned his lifestyle with heartache, loss, and pain as well.

But at the end of a trying day, or coming home from a case that tore at one's soul, it usually did his heart good to step inside and look up at the graceful sweep of his ornately railed staircase. That, more than anything else, spoke to him, saying 'you are successful and deserving of this…welcome home, David Rossi.'

However, with two briefcases tucked under his arm, and his best friend in a firm, supportive hold, the serene curve of the stairs was more a challenge than a status symbol. Rossi deposited both his and Hotch's coats and cases on a convenient foyer table. Wishing he could spare Hotch's dignity and minimize the appearance of the amount of help he needed to ascend to the second floor, Rossi kept an arm around his waist, moving him along step by step. He maintained a soothing monologue the entire way.

"That's it, Aaron. One step at a time…up you go…one more…that's a good boy…almost there…take it slow…easy does it…"

For his part, Hotch was trying to keep from overbalancing. The dizziness he'd first suspected in the car was much more noticeable once he was on his feet. But try as he would, his concentration was splintering into useless fragments. The only part he fought to keep from disappearing into a fevered mist was his promise to Jack. He _had_ to remember to tell Rossi. Even if he himself failed, he knew he could rely on his best friend to understand how important it was to be there for his son in times of sickness. How vital it was to honor promises.

He just had to keep his wits about him long enough to tell Dave.

xxxxxxx

"Atta boy…the-e-e-e-re we go…" Depositing Hotch on the bed in the nearest guest room, Rossi heaved a sigh of relief.

So did Hotch. He expelled a shaky, congested breath and squinted up at his friend. There was something he needed to say before he let himself go.

"Jack…"

"Shhhhhhh…." A heavy hand on his chest, pressed Hotch down, forcing him to lie back. "I know, Aaron. Jack has measles. You told me. He can't come here and risk picking up whatever strain of flu this is." Rossi moved with quiet efficiency as he spoke, removing shoes, belt, tie; slipping jacket and dress shirt off. When Hotch tried to interrupt the process, levering himself up on his elbows, hoping to make Rossi listen to him, the heavy hand pushed him down again.

"Aaron, you're not thinking clearly. I know you want to be with your son, but it's not a good idea right now." Rossi slipped the pants off, thankful that they were loose enough to come down easily. "You remember what it was like to have measles? When you were a kid?"

He pulled a light blanket up over the shivering body. "Measles are bad enough. Don't need to complicate things with another disease. Remember?"

Hotch coughed and rolled onto his side, talking with labored, congested breath. "Never had measles. Promised Jack…be there. _Promised_."

Rossi leaned over the bed, looking down at the earnest expression on his friend's face.

"And you always keep your promises to Jack. Or at least you do your best." He smoothed damp hair off the clammy, pallid forehead; a gesture of sympathy and understanding. "I'll go make the call right now and explain everything, _if_ you'll lie still. Okay?" The sad eyes looking back at Rossi told him Hotch wouldn't be cutting himself any slack. _Always taking blame and demanding more of himself than is humanly possible._ "I'll be right back." Rossi rose. When he reached the doorway, he looked back at the coughing, sneezing mess watching him.

"How 'bout I bring you some soup? Do you think you could eat?"

Hotch gave a low moan and turned his face into the pillow, hiding his eyes from the light that hurt them, and trying to hide from his self-judgment. Another promise to his son…broken.

Rossi sighed. "Guess not." He considered the situation. "Well, I'll make the call and, if Jack's up to it, you can talk to him yourself. Is that better?"

One eye appeared, a glazed, but hopeful, glint in it.

Rossi nodded. "Okay. That's the plan then. I'll be back in a few minutes."

As he trotted down the stairs…a much easier trip than the one coming up…he pulled his phone out, looking through the contacts for Jessica Brooks, Jack's aunt. But his mind was still on Aaron.

_Never seen flu hit so fast or so hard. Maybe there's a new strain around. I'll have to check on that._


	3. Rash Action

Rossi was almost as disappointed as he knew Hotch would be when he found out Jack was asleep and wouldn't be able to talk to his father.

But Jessica understood the circumstances and said she was perfectly willing to keep her nephew for as long as necessary. Still, Rossi could hear a note of unease in her voice. She'd probably had plans of her own that would need to be canceled in light of both the Hotchner boys' ill health.

He hung up feeling a little guilty for assuming the woman would be so readily available on such short notice. _But who gives notice before getting sick?_ He resolved to keep any suspicion of reluctance on Jessica's part a secret from Hotch. The poor man was suffering enough.

_And speaking of suffering…_ Rossi knew his guest wouldn't feel like eating, especially if he wasn't able to talk to his son. Hotch's appetite was always the first casualty when anything bad happened to him or to his loved ones. It was also a barometer of how affected he was when a case they were working hit at him particularly hard. _And considering the frequency with which __**that**__ happens, it's a wonder he has any meat on his bones at all. Still,…_he tried to find a silver lining…_his grocery bill must be next to nothing._

Rossi trudged back upstairs.

Before going in to check on Hotch, and to give him the news that he'd have to wait to touch bases with his 'Buddy,' Rossi stopped in the master bathroom. He pawed through the medicine cabinet and a couple of drawers where things that weren't used regularly were tossed into a disorganized jumble. Setting aside a thermometer and a small box that claimed an envelope of its contents, if dissolved in hot water, would relieve virtually all the miseries associated with flu, Rossi contemplated a cobalt blue, plastic jar.

Vick's VapoRub.

He'd bought it for himself a couple of winters ago when he'd felt a cold coming on. But as soon as he'd opened it and smelled the potent, mentholated odor, he'd changed his mind. Now he stared at it, weighing the unpleasantness of the smell against the good it might do. Hotch's congestion was much worse than his had been. And he could tell it was moving deeper into his friend's chest. The sound of a ragged, wheezing cough emanating from the guest room decided him. Rossi gave the jar a little toss, caught it deftly and added it to his small, pharmaceutical arsenal.

Carrying his haul from the bathroom, he headed back toward Hotch, thankful that the man's chest was virtually hairless. It would make applying the thick, waxy VapoRub much easier.

_And he's so congested, I bet the menthol doesn't even register. I could probably tell him it's a new, improved version that smells like bacon, or the ocean, or scotch, and he wouldn't be able to tell differently._

Any other time Rossi would have taken mischievous joy in making Hotch believe he smelled wonderful and then sending him out into society, reeking of fumes that would drive people away in droves. But now he wiped the small, speculative grin from his face. He reprimanded himself; at the moment, jokes at poor Aaron's expense would be wildly inappropriate.

Later maybe…when he could defend himself. But not now.

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Hotch looked up hopefully when Rossi entered the room. It would hurt when those hopes were dashed.

The older agent tried to cover his regret at being the bearer of bad news by depositing his handful of flu-combating aids on top of a nightstand, and plumping a stack of pillows at Hotch's back. He tried to put a good spin on the gist of his phone call with Jessica.

"Jack's fine, Aaron. He's asleep at the moment…which is a very good thing. And as soon as he wakes up, you can talk to him." Rossi avoided eye contact. _Assuming you're in any shape to carry on a lucid conversation, that is._

He had a feeling Hotch was hanging on for his son's sake; that given another hour or two, the fever would take him a few steps past the threshold and into the land of delirium. And there was no way he'd permit Jack to speak to his father if there was even the slightest possibility that the man would begin raving. So he gave the pillows a final pat and forced some cheer into his voice.

"And Jessica said she'll be glad to look after him until you're well enough to take him back." Hotch was watching very closely, eyes narrowed…and not just because the light hurt them. "So…" Rossi brushed his hands together in a that's-that kind of gesture. "…we're all set and there's nothing for you to worry about."

"Liar." The word was a croak, but it carried a powerful dose of accusation.

"What?!" Rossi responded to the bleary scowl with wary indignation. He didn't like being caught in a lie, and he didn't see how Hotch could know that's exactly what he'd done.

Hotch tried to push himself upright, but failed to do more than flounder among the stacked pillows. "Jess'ca's leavin' t'morrow. Vacation…" One of the cough-sneeze combos cut the rest of Aaron's speech short.

Rossi's head bowed in sudden understanding of the tone in Jessica's voice. She _did_ have plans. Apparently, big ones, if she was 'leaving' for some destination. Using that particular terminology usually meant airfare…hotel reservations…nonrefundable fees. But bringing Jack in while his father was in the worst throes of flu just wasn't a viable option.

"Aaron, I'm sorry." The look on Hotch's face was inconsolable. Rossi hated his part in putting it there. He chewed on the inside of one cheek and considered his options. "Look, let me get you a little more settled. Then, I'll call Jessica back and we'll work something out."

Hotch's sad eyes didn't blink. They squinted, but they didn't blink. Rossi tried again.

"This is a big house, Aaron. There are rooms I never use. I could put Jack in one of them and at least you two would be under the same roof." The bruised look in the dark depths of the eyes lightened ever so slightly. Rossi ran with it. "I still don't think you should be in breathing distance of each other until I know this flu thing isn't contagious any more, but maybe knowing he's nearby will help both of you. Wha'd'ya think?"

Hotch nodded. Or at least Rossi thought that's what the gesture was. He could tell there was a touch of vertigo involved when it morphed into more of a circular reeling than the classic up-and-down motion. The gaze was a little unfocused now, too.

"N'more lies."

"Alright. I'm sorry. No more lies." Rossi pushed his advantage. "_IF_, that is, you'll settle down and let me try to make you more comfortable." Then he took _un_fair advantage. "You want to look like you're winning the flu-battle when Jack sees you. Otherwise, looking like you do, you might scare the spots right off the poor kid."

Any triumph Hotch might have been feeling…dissipated…replaced by concern, and the desire to look strong for his son. Rossi saw the emotions play across his friend's face. That, more than almost anything, told him how poorly Hotch was feeling. When he was in good health, the man looked to be hewn from granite. Now, he just didn't have the energy or clarity of mind to maintain his trademark façade. Feelings gripped him, turning the tables and taking control rather than being controlled.

Rossi sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. "I'm not trying to be mean, Aaron. But _if_ I bring Jack here, it would be better if you weren't struggling for oxygen with each breath. If _I'm_ worried, imagine how a little kid who loves you and thinks you're indestructible will feel."

Hotch stared into the older man's eyes, reading the truth of what he was saying. Rossi could tell he'd won when Aaron let himself relax back into the mounded pillows. The tension ran out of his muscles. With a ragged sigh, he closed his eyes and nodded. But there was still one worry of his own that Hotch had to address.

"I don' wanna infec' you either."

Rossi smiled "I've had my flu shot. I'll take my chances." When Hotch didn't pursue the argument, he considered the battle won. "Okay, now." He gave the sick man a considering look. "I'm thinking you need something to help with congestion so you can rest. Once we get that taken care of, I'll call Jessica and fix this mess."

Rossi continued talking in soothing tones while he retrieved the VapoRub from the nightstand.

"So I guess Jack didn't inherit your natural immunity to measles." He nodded to himself sagely. "I grew up with someone like that. I was laid up with rash and cough and all the rest, but she breezed on through childhood without ever having to go through any of it." He shook his head at the strange fortune bestowed on some people. "Didn't seem fair."

Rossi unscrewed the lid of the jar. His nose wrinkled involuntarily at the powerful fumes. He shot a quick, furtive look at Hotch to see if the aroma was registering on his incapacitated olfactory senses. But his gaze was glassy and distant. _If he can't smell this, it means he really needs it._

"Aaron, I need to spread some of this on your chest. It'll feel warm…maybe tingle a little…but it'll make it easier for you to get air into your lungs."

Hotch didn't seem too interested. _He's exhausted and he's suffering. The sooner this stuff gets to work on him, the better._ Rossi set the little jar down. He moved the blanket a little lower, granting access to the hem of Hotch's t-shirt.

"I need to get to your chest, Aaron."

Rossi used both hands to ease Hotch's shirt up. He gave his head a rueful shake as the ribs were exposed. Labored breathing made their prominence seem even more pathetic than usual. _Maybe while I have him here I can feed him up a little. He should build up his reserves for times like this._

Rossi managed to push the thin fabric all the way up to the collarbones…

…and froze.

Stark against Hotch's pale skin was a livid, red rash, creeping its way down both sides of his chest toward his ribs.


	4. Spot Check

"Aww, Jeez." Rossi's reaction to the rash invading Hotch's torso was quiet, heartfelt, and horrified.

Hotch had gone limp, head turned away, submitting to being cared for by whatever means his friend deemed appropriate. The hope of getting Jack back was a powerful incentive for obedience. But when he felt air on his chest and realized he was being stared at, Hotch opened his eyes, confronting the situation as seen through his fevered, impaired judgment.

"Stop it, Dave." The Unit Chief's voice was hoarse and weary. "You've seen my scars before. Don't look at me."

With the gentlest touch he could manage, Rossi lowered Hotch's shirt back into place. No sooner had he done so than one of the sick man's hands came up and absently rubbed at one side of his chest. Rossi grabbed the wrist and held in up in a firm grip.

"Don't scratch." He pressed the arm down to the mattress. "And it's not your scars that have me worried." He gave a deep sigh. "I guess it's 'like father, like son' after all…you've got measles, Aaron."

Hotch didn't look too alarmed for himself. Through eyelids too heavy to open more than halfway, he still managed to give Rossi an expectant look. "So I c'n have Jack?"

The effort Hotch was putting into hanging on, into following a train of thought that would lead him to his son, touched the older man's heart. But he wasn't ready to commit to promising that father-son reunion, even if it seemed to be the only thing keeping Hotch from resting. He considered his words with care, basing them on the actions he felt were necessary. It would have been easy to lie and tell Hotch that he'd go get Jack so the man would relax, but he'd said 'no more lies.' And before he brought the child into his house, he wanted to be sure there would be no ill consequences.

Rossi patted the flat stomach…at least there wasn't any rash to irritate there. Yet. "I promise I'll do what's best for both you and Jack. That's all I can say for now, Aaron. But first, I'll make sure Jessica knows she doesn't need to miss her vacation and I'll make you a little more comfortable. Be back in a minute."

He rose and retraced his steps to the bathroom, flipping his phone on once he was out of earshot.

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"Hi, Rossi. How's Hotch?" Reid had answered on the first ring.

"Not good." He was searching through the medicine drawer again; this time for something to help with fever and pain, as well as anything that would soothe itching skin. "He's got measles, Reid."

There was a beat of silence as the young genius' encyclopedic brain accessed everything he knew about the disease when an adult was struck down by it. Having seen the state in which Hotch left work, something else was bothering Reid, too.

"You're sure it's measles?"

"He's got the rash and it's spreading downward. So…yeah…I'm pretty sure." Rossi frowned; Reid didn't ask pointless questions. "Why?"

"Measles is progressive; it's a sequential disease. Hotch was hit by vomiting, sneezing, cough within the space of a few hours and I'd say it was severe. Onset of measles is usually milder and takes place over a few days. The severe fever and the worst part of the rash are simultaneous, but days later. Usually, anyway."

Rossi paused in the act of reading the warning label on a tube of cortisone cream. "Are you trying to tell me something, Reid?"

"I'm not saying he _doesn't_ have measles." A note of discomfort at being the harbinger of bad news crept into the cautious voice. "I think he probably has something else, too. Like…maybe…flu…like you thought. Maybe. On top of measles."

Rossi stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, watching realization dawn over his own face that things might be even worse than originally suspected.

Rossi was a child of the pre-computer age. He'd grown up in a house that contained a set of Encyclopedia Britannica. The series of books had been the main source of research for any question that came up. Now, when he needed quick answers on virtually any subject, Spencer Reid had become his source, his set of volumes containing the knowledge of the ages. But Reid wasn't as safe as looking something up in a book; a book that could be closed after the one piece of data you sought had been read. Sometimes Reid provided more information than expected. And sometimes it wasn't welcome news.

Since making the young agent's acquaintance, Rossi had learned, one: you couldn't shut the cover and put Reid back on the shelf, two: the genius usually had a good reason for giving you more than you wanted to know, and three: ignorance really was bliss. Potentially dangerous. But, oh, so blissful while it lasted.

"The reason I called, Reid, was because I know measles is a whole different ballgame when an adult gets it." He snagged a bottle of aspirin out of the medicine cabinet. "I wanted to know what to look out for. But now you're telling me this has already escalated to…what?...some kind of designer plague?...measles mixed with the flu virus?"

He could hear Reid's exhalation. He'd been holding his breath, waiting for Rossi to realize and accept the potential gravity of the situation.

"There are other infections that can make inroads on his body, but most adults get over it on their own, if they just take care of themselves." Reid could hear doubt in the silence that followed what he considered an optimistic statement. "Hotch pushes himself, Rossi. We all know that. He takes risks with his own health that he'd _never_ allow anyone else to. I think, if the rash has appeared, he's been feeling bad for days. But he kept going and another virus took advantage of his weakened state."

Rossi could feel a tiny frisson of anger at Aaron's self-neglect. Now wouldn't do any good, but he vowed that once Hotch was well, or at least over the hump and on the mend, there would be a very long, very one-sided discussion about the downside of self-sacrifice.

Hotch had never learned how to balance himself between all the different demands life placed on him. _Rather, the demands he places on __**himself**__. _Rossi frowned. _First things first. You can yell at Aaron later._

"So, Dr. Reid, how do you think I should handle a stubborn, sick man who wants his measle-ridden son to join him?"

He could almost hear the gears clicking in the finely-wrought machine that was Reid's brain.

"Hotch hates doctors and hospitals, but I'd say he needs someone to look at him. This isn't a normal case." There was a pause before Reid asked a hopeful question. "Do you know anyone who'd make a house call? The measles has to be reported anyway in case there's a general outbreak, but if you can get the go-ahead from a physician to keep Hotch with you, I'd feel a lot better. Then at least we'd rule out that he needs hospitalization right now."

Rossi nodded, a small smile twitching his lips upward as he found a bottle of cortisone spray…a leftover from last year's duck hunting foray into mosquito country. And perfect for the current situation.

"I do have some connections. I'll see about getting a doctor over here. Anything else you can think of I might need to know?"

"Just that Hotch's vulnerable to other infections right now. Be on the lookout for pneumonia in particular." Reid paused, remembering the last time Hotch's health had been an issue. "We were able to catch it last time…you know…after Haley…well, you know…"

Rossi _did_ know. The aftermath of Haley's murder had sent Hotch to one of the lowest, darkest places he'd ever been. It had taken a team effort to pull him back. Rossi was sure this wouldn't be as bad. The primary problem was physical. As far as he knew, the emotional pain they'd uncovered in Foyet's sadistic wake didn't apply this time. _Thank God._

"Wha'd you think about my bringing Jack over here?"

"Keep them apart until we know more about the flu thing. And didn't Jack get inoculated before he went to school? He should've. And if he still contracted this, then he must be _really_ vulnerable to the virus. I'd hate to think what would've happened if he _hadn't_ had the vaccine."

Rossi tried to recall Jack's entry into the educational system. It had been around the time Hotch was at his worst. J.J. had found the school and enrolled the boy. Poor Aaron probably still felt guilty about his non-participation.

Rossi sighed. There was more to be looked into than he'd anticipated.

"I don't know, Reid. Right now I'm juggling a few balls and just trying to get each one into its proper place."

"Anything I can do to help?" Reid couldn't tell if the hesitation that followed his question was because Rossi was reluctant to involve the team again in the care and feeding of Aaron Hotchner, or if he was going down his list of priorities to see where help was needed. Reid decided to lay the former concern to rest.

"You should know that Garcia's already planning a menu for you guys. What I've heard is you'll be getting her signature, homemade, chicken soup for starters, followed by what she calls 'recovery' food."

" 'Recovery' food?"

"I know. I'm not sure what that would be, but I think it involves chocolate and cookies…maybe gingerbread, too."

Both men smiled, thinking of Garcia blissfully at home in her kitchen, doing what she loved best for the people she loved most.

"So if you need help, Rossi, you know we're already there."

The older man felt the tiny tug at his emotions that always accompanied the realization that, although family-less in the traditional sense, he was a member of one of the best. "Thanks, Reid. Maybe you could touch bases with J.J. about the pre-school vaccination thing? And let me know if you think of anything else I should be on the lookout for with Hotch…and Jack."

"Sure. So you're gonna bring Jack in?"

Rossi smiled. It had taken being reminded that he was part of a family to acknowledge the bolstering, healing properties of those emotional ties. Having Jack nearby, even if he couldn't be in the same room or breathe the same air, would go a long way toward restoring Hotch, body and soul.

"I am. Tomorrow, so his aunt can go on a vacation she's been planning. And I'll get a doctor in here today so I know how to handle the Hotchners." Rossi felt better about the whole situation, having a plan of action. "Thanks, kid."

"No problem."

Rossi was about to disconnect when Reid's voice stopped him.

"Rossi! Wait!"

He brought the phone back up. "I'm here."

"The cough. Hotch's ribs on the left side…where Foyet…" The sound of Reid swallowing was audible. "…where Foyet _concentrated_ his…work…If Hotch's coughing gets violent enough, he's gonna feel it there. Maybe even re-damage the original injury."

Rossi sighed. _Poor guy can't catch a break. And he's never really going to be free of the worst time of his life._


	5. Show and Tell

Gathering up the bottles of aspirin and cortisone spray, Rossi's next task was to call in a favor from his past.

xxxxxx

Martin Palmer's service in Viet Nam had been short, but memorable. He'd been a doctor who'd just finished his internship, specializing in Internal Medicine when he'd seen uncensored footage of the atrocities mankind could inflict on itself in the name of war. His patriotism was unquestionable, but he'd signed on more for the love of his fellow man than for love of country. He just couldn't sit by, building a profitable practice, enjoying all the comforts of home, when there was so much suffering elsewhere in the world.

Viet Nam had been the first outlet for his humanitarianism.

If it hadn't been for David Rossi, it would have been his last as well.

When Dr. Palmer had been hit by friendly fire from a sentry who'd spooked at the flare of a match he'd been using to light a cigarette from his ever-dwindling supply, Rossi had been the one who'd kept his head and applied a life-saving tourniquet. The outpost was in the process of bugging out. Palmer was the only remaining member of the medical crew. In the dead of night, with minimal supplies, he'd talked the anxious, impossibly young Rossi through the process of extracting the bullet, and cleaning and suturing the wound. Palmer had passed out a few times during the operation, but every time he managed to come back, the Marine had been there. And always, as soon as he'd seen awareness in the doctor's eyes, he'd asked in a voice that was frightened, but faithful, "What do I do next? Tell me what to do."

Palmer knew Rossi had saved him from slowly bleeding out. And, although the job he'd done lacked finesse and would need to be corrected by a professional in the days and weeks to come, he also knew that the Marine's determination and courage had been instrumental in saving his arm.

Martin Palmer was sent home, but because of Rossi, he was able to continue practicing medicine with two good hands. He went on to participate in CARE, Doctors without Borders, International Red Cross, and the Mercy Corps.

Over the years, he'd been in other dangerous situations, but it wasn't until the hut he was bunking in fell apart during a tropical storm, leaving him with a broken leg and a jagged cut running on a diagonal from shoulder to hip, that he decided to come back home to the U.S..

Saving the world was a game for younger men, and he felt he'd finally earned the right to rest.

Still, he continued to practice in clinics that were underfunded and understaffed. The light in his heart that made him want to help others glowed as warmly as ever.

It was Martin whom Rossi called now.

It was Martin who grabbed his worn, little black bag and headed out the door, smiling at the good fortune that allowed him an opportunity to show his gratitude. _Good for me…probably not so much for Dave's sick friend._

xxxxxx

Rossi had called Jessica, telling her not to cancel any vacation plans.

A doctor was on his way to evaluate Hotch. Afterwards, he would know more about the feasibility of installing Jack in his home. But he guaranteed that even if he had to hire a private nurse and put the boy someplace in quarantine, he'd accomplish it tomorrow, so Jessica could leave with a clear conscience, knowing the Hotchner boys were cared for.

He only had time to tell Hotch where things stood, and to make him take an aspirin, when he heard the doorbell announcing the arrival of Dr. Palmer. He hurried to greet his friend.

"Marty."

"Dave."

And then Dr. Palmer demonstrated the strength in the arm he owed to Rossi by employing it to give him a powerful hug. Both men's thoughts were transported back to a steamy, midnight-dark jungle. The physical contact communicated more than hours of dialogue ever could. When they released and stepped back from each other, there was no need to delve any deeper into the past. It was in their eyes, in the very blocks from which they were built, and each recognized it in the other.

Smiling, Rossi pulled himself back to the present. "It's been a long time, Marty. Thanks for coming."

"As though anything could stop me. Other than friendly fire." A mischievous grin made its appearance, acknowledging the debt he would always owe. "It's good to see you, Dave."

Rossi sighed. "I wish it was under other circumstances. Like I said over the phone…I've got a man upstairs who's sick as a dog…"

The doctor nodded, continuing the scenario Dave had painted for him. "…and he wants his son." He glanced at the grand, sweeping staircase and his grin grew wider, pleased at the obvious success the former Marine had attained. "Well, lead the way. I'll need to examine him before I can give any stamp of approval on bringing his boy here."

As the two men began ascending the stairs, Rossi spoke in a lowered, more confidential tone. "Something you should know: he's been through a lot. And he has the _scars_ to show for it."

Martin read between the lines with a skill developed from years of working with the injured and the ill. "Little self-conscious, is he?"

"Only if you catch him shirtless."

"So you didn't just call me for my medical prowess?" The doctor's chuckle was deep and genuine. "You always did have a knack for using the resources at hand."

Rossi's smile was rueful. "You don't mind?"

"If I think your boy needs it, I'll do a little show-and-tell."

"Thanks, Marty."

"Any time."

xxxxxxxxxx

Hotch was hanging on.

He needed to know what would be happening with Jack before he could allow himself to give in to the sickness that was making him miserable. And he was already regretting the aspirin Dave had insisted would make him feel better.

His stomach was where he felt things first. It spent a great deal of time tied in knots and drenched in acid. It was why his appetite was so poor in light of the emotional fallout of the cases they worked. Currently, it was very empty, which was fine with Hotch. A full stomach was a stomach at risk for vomiting. He'd had enough of that. But aspirin was not an empty stomach's friend. He could feel a general burning sensation as the pill dissolved into his system.

Other than that, he felt…terrible.

When the sound of low conversation approaching in the hallway registered, Hotch realized one of his ears hurt, too. There was an ache deep inside. His eyes were increasingly sensitive as well. When Rossi and his doctor friend reached the doorway, Hotch squinted at them, unable to prevent himself from sneezing a greeting that quickly morphed into a cough.

Martin's eyebrows rose. He knew Dave wasn't an alarmist when he said someone was sick, but even from several yards away the doctor could tell this was one miserable specimen. And he was trying to downplay his affliction. There was a defiant 'Yeah? So?' glint in the rheumy eyes and the attempt to pull himself upright to seem more vigorous and vigilant. He could almost see the thought bubble above the sick man's head: _I'm fine. Bring me my son. _Martin found such a stubborn example of fatherly devotion endearing. His smile was almost affectionate as he approached the bed.

"Dr. Martin Palmer, may I introduce SSA Aaron Hotchner." Rossi performed the social pleasantries and stood aside, letting the doctor begin his examination.

"Hi, Doc." Hotch's voice was raspy. The doctor could tell breathing didn't come easy.

"Mr. Hotchner." He took a seat on the edge of the bed, setting his bag at his feet. "Dave tells me you might have measles and maybe something else, too?"

He tilted his head back and studied the face before him. It was flushed. The eyes were watery and irritated. Reaching out, he touched the chin and turned the head to one side. "Ah, I see."

Rossi was instantly alert. "What?"

"Measles. The rash usually starts around the head and then progresses downward. Behind the ears is a common place for it to take hold." He released Hotch's chin. "And it has." The redness had spread down the neck and disappeared beneath the collar of the man's t-shirt.

_Now comes the delicate part_. "Let me help you off with your shirt, Mr. Hotchner. I need to examine you …" He played a hopeful bargaining chip. "…before I decide if it's alright for you to be reunited with your son."

Hotch swayed, having trouble maintaining his stiff I'm-okay posture. Both older men could see the combination of reluctance and defeat washing over his features. He slumped, abandoning the effort to impress everyone with his ability to sit straight. Coughing and sniffling, Hotch nodded.

Martin slipped the shirt off, aware that, even as bleary as he was, his patient was watching for his reaction. He was glad Rossi had warned him. Despite the atrocities he'd seen throughout his career, the doctor felt a wave of sympathy as the scars were revealed.

The torso was lean and fit. Clearly this was a man who took pride in maintaining his body. The injuries were an insult that struck deep into the core of his self-image. Martin placed a gentle hand in the center of the chest, covering most of the longest, heaviest scar. When he looked at Hotch's face, he saw the same look he'd seen in so many, many other victims. Eye contact was refused. He was mentally absenting himself. It was a survival tactic, a way to hide.

Martin let the warmth of his palm sink in. He could feel the rapid heartbeat; partially due to illness, but also attributable to the experience of the patient's letting a stranger touch him in such a private way. When he spoke, the doctor kept his voice low and devoid of judgment.

"How long ago did this happen to you, son?"

"Couple years." Coughing followed, making the chest jump against the doctor's hand.

"That's not much time to heal."

There was a flicker in the depths of the eyes, but they still wouldn't look up.

"I'm a fas' healer." An irritating almost-sneeze cut short anything else Hotch might have said.

"I don't mean here…" Martin pressed his palm slightly flatter against the scar tissue. Then, he moved it to rest over the man's heart. "I mean here…" He moved it up to lay his fingertips against the too-warm forehead. "…and here."

Slowly, by increments, Hotch's eyes came up to meet the doctor's. Martin removed his hand, careful to keep from glancing back at the scars, holding his patient's sad gaze with his own.

"Miracles happen overnight. But healing takes as long as it takes. It's a natural process that moves at its own pace."

Keeping his eyes locked with Hotch's, the doctor unbuttoned his own shirt, pulling the fabric back to reveal a long, ropy scar starting at his right collarbone and traveling across his body until it disappeared under the left side of his waistband. He watched Hotch's eyes drop and trace the path of the jagged, raised, white mark.

"It's been fifteen years for me. Give yourself time, son." Martin left his shirt open, letting his scar show as he reached for the medical bag at his feet. Extracting a stethoscope, he looked back at Hotch with an understanding smile. "Now, let's see what else is going on with you."

He raised the disc, breathed on it to warm it, and placed it against his patient's chest.

Eyes still fastened on the doctor's horrendous scar…Hotch let him.


	6. Truth in Dreams

Rossi's presence was unobtrusive during the doctor's examination of Hotch.

He stayed in the background, trying to gauge the severity of his friend's condition based on Martin's facial expressions. But Martin was an expert at keeping himself low-key. Through it all, he remained calmly noncommittal.

Snuffling and flushed as Hotch was, he strove to equal the doctor's inscrutability. But he couldn't keep his eyes from returning to the openly displayed scar. He wondered how Dr. Palmer had acquired it. But knowing the reluctance he felt about discussing his own damage, Hotch didn't ask. He held on, wishing his head would stop spinning and his eyes would stop burning and all the other unpleasant things plaguing him would stop as well. It took most of his dwindling energy, but he stayed stoic and silent. It wasn't until the doctor palpated his left side that Hotch reacted.

The fingers probed deeply, close to the spot that would remain tender for the rest of his life…a souvenir from George Foyet. Hotch couldn't help the grunt of pain, nor could he prevent the involuntary, instinctive contraction of his stomach muscles as they tried to protect the area.

Martin immediately let up on the pressure he'd been applying. It had been a standard examination of the spleen, but he could tell something else had reared its ugly head. _As if illness and the lingering trauma from whatever scarred this man isn't enough._

"Son?" The doctor's brow furrowed with concern, watching his patient cross his arms over his midriff in a defensive, little huddle.

"Okay…okay…okay…" What breath Hotch had came out in small gasps as he waited for the pain to recede.

Rossi was at the bedside immediately, kneeling as he tried to look into Hotch's face. "Aaron? The ribs?"

"Okay…okay…okay…" He kept up his trademark chant even as he nodded to Dave's question.

Rossi's next words were for the doctor. "He got injured; same incident that gave him the scars. Apparently there was enough repeated damage to make the injury chronic."

Martin took hold of Hotch's shoulders and eased him back, encouraging the tense stomach muscles to release. He was curious about the incident Rossi referred to, but he also respected his patient's right to privacy. He didn't need to know the details in order to make his assessment regarding the infectious diseases invading this man. _And I've seen enough. _His eyes went to the aspirin and the glass of water Rossi had left on the nightstand. He inclined his head toward the small bottle.

"How many of those did he take?"

"One. He's kind of sensitive to medication. Doesn't take much for him to feel it."

"Hmmmm." Martin reached deep into the black satchel at his feet, extracting a similar bottle. "Use these instead. They'll bring his fever down, help with the pain, and won't upset his stomach as much." He went back to studying Hotch's face. "Think you could tell me everything that hurts right now, Mr. Hotchner? Give me an inventory?"

The worse Hotch felt, the less adept he was becoming at hiding his thoughts and feelings. Both older men saw him weighing the consequences of being truthful, possibly risking having Jack kept from him. Martin decided to put him out of at least a little of his misery.

"It's alright to be honest, son. I've already decided you can have your boy brought in." He met Rossi's inquisitive glance. "But they'll need to be separated for a few days. At least until the flu virus is past the contagious phase." He looked back at Hotch. The smile that shone forth even through fever and pain confirmed that he'd made the right decision. _Knowing his son is here, he'll be able to rest. Knowing he'll need to improve before they can be in the same room…well, that'll be added incentive to let Dave take care of him._

Feeling encouraged, Hotch snuffled his way through his list of physical grievances. Once he was done, Rossi added a few words based on Reid's caution concerning Hotch's ability to weather a severe cough with ribs intact. When he had the whole picture, Martin gave his patient a long, considering look. Despite his continued regard of Hotch, when he spoke, it was to Rossi.

"The ribs worry me. He needs to cough to keep his lungs clear and to help expectorate the congestion. Your friend is right: coughing could damage the ribs. But, if I tape them, the rash will be irritated once it spreads under the bandaging. So…" He sighed, watching Hotch struggle to stay alert. "…I think I _will_ tape them for now. We'll just have to see which disease runs its course fastest. The deep cough is the flu. So is the congestion. I'll write you a prescription for something that'll make the coughing more productive, hopefully clear him out a little sooner." He tilted his head, reaching one hand down to rest against Hotch's tender left side. "We'll just have to balance possible re-injury against the discomfort of its prevention. Make sure while he's awake he takes a deep breath a couple times an hour. It'll help keep pneumonia at bay. Mostly I want him to rest and drink plenty of fluids. Ginger ale's always been my favorite for the sickbed. Food if he wants it, but don't be alarmed if he doesn't eat for a couple of days.

"I'll tape him up, then be back tomorrow to check on him…" A grin flashed out, anticipating his patient's joy in the imminent reunion. "…_and_ his son. In the meantime, darken this room. It'll be better for his eyes. And as for you, Mr. Hotchner, I think I'll let your son come over tomorrow. I want you to rest tonight. And I _don't_ want you forcing yourself to stay awake, trying to look stronger than you are for his sake." Martin placed two fingers beneath the chin, tipping the head up to make eye contact. "Understood?" _Good God, he's almost out…and still fighting to look in control._

Hotch blinked, looking woozy. "Uh-huh."

The doctor shook his head in combined admiration and exasperation. He reached into his bag once more for his prescription pad and a roll of tape. Rossi moved about the room pulling blinds and closing drapes.

Hotch closed his eyes and let Martin work, grateful for everything that was being done on his behalf, and comforting himself with the thought of seeing Jack. It meant his promise to his son wouldn't be broken. Altered a little, but not broken.

xxxxxxx

Once Dr. Palmer had left, Rossi went into overdrive.

He needed to fill the prescription, coordinate with Jessica about picking up Jack, ready a room for the boy, and stock up on whatever he imagined the two, sick Hotchners would need over the next few days. In addition, he needed to notify the team and Section Chief Strauss that both he and Hotch would be out of commission for at least a few days. But uppermost in his mind was ensuring that Jack and Aaron would be kept apart until it was deemed safe for them to breathe the same air and snuggle up together the way Rossi knew they would want to.

It wasn't until he was faced with leaving Hotch alone so he could make a trip to the pharmacy, that he paused and smiled, remembering his discussion with Reid. _I'm not alone in this. I…__**we**__…have family._

J.J. was the one to whom he turned first. She was a mother who had experience with the issues of childhood from a parent's perspective. And she had a way of arrowing in on Hotch's moods and knowing just when, just where, and exactly how he needed handling. Plus, the woman had a serenity about her that Rossi admitted he himself would find comforting under the circumstances.

xxxxxx

"I'll be by in about half an hour." The very tone of J.J.'s voice was soothing. Already Rossi felt more in control of the sick Hotchners situation.

J.J. had volunteered to mobilize the team.

She would pick up the prescription, filling it while shopping for the other things she thought would keep Jack entertained while confined to bed, and would make sure both boys were properly nourished and hydrated until they were well enough to enjoy the treats Garcia was whipping up.

Morgan would handle the necessary notifications at work. He was alpha enough to make Strauss think twice before bringing up any objections or initiating any conflict.

Reid was focusing his efforts on ways to keep father and son separated. And Prentiss was keeping a weather eye on him to make sure the genius didn't get _too_ creative. She winced when she saw him pause on a screen that portrayed restraint systems involving harnesses and pulleys.

"No, Reid."

"But…"

"No."

The young agent had sighed with regret for the lost opportunity to recreate something from Da Vinci's day, but he'd admitted it might be a little controversial when applied to a five-year-old child.

Rossi coordinated with Jessica concerning a time to pick up Jack before she had to leave for what turned out to be her dream vacation: a week in France, with stops in Paris, Lourdes and Provence. After that, he made sure the bedroom farthest away from Hotch's was ready for the boy.

xxxxxxxxx

Rossi had been looking in on Hotch from time to time during the preparations. Two hours later, thanks to the team effort, everything was in place. All that remained to be done was for Reid to bring over what he considered a disappointingly _un_creative confinement solution…an extra-tall, expanding pet gate for Jack's bedroom doorway with a few customizations that Morgan was installing using his construction expertise. He'd assured everyone that the gate would be ready, and would stand up to even the clever fingers of a five-year-old. It would be in place tomorrow before Jack arrived.

Rossi brewed a pot of tea, took a can of the ginger ale J.J. had brought…along with plain crackers, puzzles, games and coloring books…and went to sit with his friend for a while before turning in himself.

He entered Hotch's room quietly. Exhaustion, illness, cough syrup, and two of the buffered pills the doctor had left, had subdued the Unit Chief. But Rossi wasn't sure if he was really asleep. He set the tray with the beverages down on the nightstand and pulled a chair up to the bedside.

If Hotch was awake, he was going to make him take a good, deep breath, per Martin's orders. In the dimmed light, he couldn't tell if the shadowed eyes were closed or merely slitted.

"Aaron? You awake?" Rossi reached over, intending to give the nearest shoulder a gentle caress.

As soon as he did, Hotch flinched. Moaning in what sounded to Rossi like fear more than physical discomfort, he curled himself into a ball and cringed as far away as he could get from the hand that had touched him.

"Sorry…sorry…sorry…sorry…"

Rossi drew back, puzzled. "What're you sorry for? What's wrong? Aaron?"

The response was faint, weak-voiced, and frightened. "Sorry…sorry…di'n mean to get sick…sorry…don' hit me, Dad…please…sorry…sorry…"

A lump formed in Rossi's throat, watching his friend deep in the grip of his fevered dreams.

_Oh, God. That's what it was like for him when he was growing up._

For the next few hours Rossi sat by his friend, speaking low, soft, reassurances, hoping they would penetrate the delirium.

And being very careful not to touch him.


	7. Questions in the Night

Sitting up with Hotch, Rossi didn't expect to fall asleep. Listening to Aaron's troubled rest was tearing his heart out for the child his friend had been. Feverish and semi-conscious, Hotch's scattered words were interspersed with moans that could have been the man in pain, or the boy in fear. It was hard to tell.

Rossi tried talking to him. For a while he didn't know if he was heard, but after a couple of hours, the head turned toward the sound of his voice. Encouraged, he spoke in soft, insistent tones, giving the same assurances over and over and, eventually, when it looked as though Hotch's half-closed eyes were trained on him, he asked questions, hoping to break through the bad dreams and redirect the thought patterns. He had to repeat himself a number of times, but Aaron's whispered responses began to paint a picture of how growing up in the Hotchner household had been.

Rossi didn't think the semi-delirious man would remember their dialogue. It was almost like talking to someone under sodium pentothal, or deep hypnosis. Then, after a while longer, he _prayed_ Hotch wouldn't remember. He'd thought the questions were commonplace enough to preclude going off-track into nightmarish territory. Rossi began to learn that 'nightmarish' was the only kind of territory that existed in Hotch's distant past.

"It's alright, Aaron. No one's going to hurt you." He worked at keeping his voice smooth and sure; a guarantee of protection.

"N-o-o-o-o…" The strained moan said Hotch wasn't buying it. "Please…don't…hit…sorry…sick…"

"Aaron, Aaron, I'm here. It's Dave. I won't let anyone hurt you."

"Sorry…sorry…sorry…sick…sorry…" Hotch's head rocked from side to side; whether from fevered disorientation, or in negation, hoping to keep the inevitable punishment away, Rossi couldn't tell.

He didn't give up. He tried questions he hoped would distract Hotch from the endless loop of abuse upon which his mind was fixed. Questions that would direct a child toward hope and the future, rather than a dismal present.

"Aaron, Aaron. Listen to me, Aaron. When you were a child, what did you want to be when you grew up? Can you tell me that, Aaron? What did you want to be when you grew up?"

The eyelids had flickered and for a moment Rossi thought he'd succeeded. Until the answer came, whispered and hoarse, like a shameful secret the child feared to admit.

"What did you want to be when you grew up, Aaron?"

"Safe…wanna be safe…"

Rossi stared. He'd expected the usual response boys gave. They wanted to be cowboys or firemen or astronauts. They wanted to be the heroes of their own lives. Little Aaron Hotchner had more humble aspirations. He just wanted to be safe. Rossi swallowed and felt his eyes fill.

"You _are_ safe, Aaron. You're _safe._ I won't let anything happen to you. You're _safe_."

He listened to the sounds of congestion; the labored breathing and the small, hiccupping cough. And he tried again. Maybe Hotch had found refuge in school. He possessed a keen intelligence. Maybe he'd excelled as a student. Maybe his subconscious could be redirected to that as a more positive, more comfortable place for his mind to dwell.

"What did you like most about school, Aaron? What were you good at? Were you good at something in school? Aaron?" _Please let that kid have had __**some**__ positive reinforcement __**somewhere**__ in his life…_

Another low moan preceded Hotch's response. "Sorry…sorry…not good 'nough…sorry…nev'r good 'nough…" The body curled in on itself again. "Sorry…don' hit…Dad…please…nooooo…"

That was when Rossi gave up the gentle approach. Stronger means were needed. To still his own emotional turmoil over what he was learning about Aaron, he needed to hold him. He hoped that once he'd done so, Aaron would realize the strong arms around him were hugging, not hurting.

At the moment, this man's agitated mind was more in need of care than any of his physical ailments.

Rossi sat on the mattress. He lifted Hotch's upper body, cradling it against himself. He wrapped his arms around his friend's chest, trying not to stress the spot lower down where the rib injury lay. He wasn't surprised when the reaction was a wordless whimper of fear and an effort to struggle free. Rossi held on. Hotch was too weak to break away. After a few fruitless attempts, the shivering body lay still, helpless, waiting for punishment to judge by the small, frightened noises he was trying to muffle.

"Shhhhhhh. Shhhhhhh." Rossi mastered his own emotions, staying strong for his friend. _God, what did that monster do to you, Aaron?_ After a little adjusting, Rossi managed to pull Hotch's back against him. He kept his arms hugged around Hotch's chest, crossed in front of him, holding onto his biceps. It made it easy to speak from behind, close to either of his ears. Rossi didn't know what to say at first. How could words have any influence over such pain? Then he realized it was actually a simple matter to know what the damaged, little boy at the root of Aaron's dreams wanted to hear. So very simple. The only thing he'd probably _never_ heard. Rossi bent his head and, in a voice that couldn't be ignored, gave the child what he needed.

"Love you, Aaron. I love you. You're a good boy. A _safe_ boy. I love you, son."

Gradually, the tension in Hotch's body eased. By the time he was quiet enough for Rossi to feel okay about releasing him, dawn had broken.

Rossi tucked him in, blotting the fever-sweat from his face and upper body. He was bone-weary, but it was worth it. Hotch had come back from his past.

This time, when Rossi reached down and patted his shoulder, the younger man turned toward the caress instead of cringing away.

xxxxxxxx

"Man, you look like hell."

Rossi had abandoned the idea of sleep. For one thing, he was too upset about the glimpse he'd had into Hotch's formative years. For another, he needed to pick up Jack in a couple of hours so Jessica would have plenty of time to get through airport security and make her international flight.

He'd attempted to boost his flagging energy with a shower and fresh coffee…double strength…but he was still dragging when Morgan rang his doorbell, revised pet door and toolbox in hand.

"Good morning to you, too, Derek." Rossi didn't return the sardonic grin of the man standing on his doormat.

Morgan brandished the toolbox and nodded at the contraption gripped under his arm. "Well, I got the blockade here. Pretty good job, if I do say so myself. I'm betting it could even keep boss-man in line, let alone his kid."

Rossi nodded and motioned for Morgan to go past him into the foyer. When no answering caustic remark, or praise for his handiwork was forthcoming, the agent's grin faded.

"Hey, Rossi. You okay?"

"Yeah…yeah…Rough night. That's all."

Morgan's profiler's hearing detected more. "How's Hotch?"

Rossi yawned. "Fever broke about an hour ago. He's asleep." He started trudging up the stairs, a tilt of his head telling Morgan to follow. "Not making much sense. He's one sick boy."

Rossi never called Hotch a 'boy.' At least not in the presence of his team. Morgan knew Rossi had been Hotch's mentor and trainer. It allowed him the liberty of delving beneath the drill sergeant exterior. It was no secret that Rossi liked Hotch. Immensely. Everyone knew there was a special bond between the two men. It was easy for Morgan to imagine the older man keeping a night-long vigil by the younger's bedside.

"Rossi, you get any sleep at all?"

There was no answer. Instead Rossi led him to the room he'd prepared for Jack. "This is it." He rubbed a hand over his face, sighing. "I've gotta go…" He glanced at his wristwatch. "…and get Jack in about an hour. Think you'll be done by then?"

Morgan set his burdens down and turned to face the heavy-lidded eyes roaming over the room's interior, doing one more check to be sure it was ready for its five-year-old tenant.

"I'll be done. But, Rossi…you're done _now._ No way you're going to pick up a sick kid." He raised his brows. "Family helps. Remember?"

Before Rossi's sleep-deprived brain could catch on to whatever point he was making, Morgan pulled out his phone and punched in a number. "J.J.? You busy?" The flashing, white smile was a sign that the answer had been the one he'd hoped for. "Good. Rossi's in a bind. I'm at his place, but we need someone to get Jack. And maybe someone to stay and look after him and Hotch while Rossi gets some shuteye. Can do?" He chuckled, bending to open his toolbox. "Thanks. See you."

Morgan flipped his phone shut and pocketed it. "Everything's set. J.J.'s getting Jack. Prentiss and Garcia are coming over with supplies, which, if I know my Baby Girl, means cookies and other assorted treats. They'll watch over Hotch and Jack while you rest. So…" He began fitting the barrier into the doorway. "…you're not needed, Rossi. For at least eight to ten hours." Morgan turned his back on his host. "Goodnight, man. Sweet dreams."

Rossi blinked. He was a little overwhelmed. It had all happened so quickly. Suddenly he wasn't in control of every detail. And it felt good.

"Thank you, Derek. I'll see you later."

Rossi took one last look at Hotch. _Still restless…but better. _He went to the master suite, his haven from the world's ills and shut the door on the sounds of Morgan-at-work. Once undressed and in bed, he fell asleep within minutes.

His last conscious thought was for the contrast between the care and consideration being demonstrated by his team, and the flood of horrors that had comprised Hotch's childhood.

Despite Morgan's wish, his dreams of a boy with no place to run…weren't sweet.


	8. Team Time

J.J.'s morning was filling up rapidly.

She'd planned on a Saturday at home with Henry and Will, but Morgan's call for help altered things a little. She might have passed the buck about picking up Jack to Garcia, Prentiss, or even Reid, but she had some lingering guilt about the snafu involving the boy's immunizations.

With all the stress of looking after Hotch immediately following Foyet's second and final attack, she'd made a grave error. She'd been so distracted, running so many different races…trying to help Hotch find a new home suitable for raising a child, finding a school for Jack, keeping her own domestic life on an even keel, and just plain worrying over poor Aaron's recovery…her overworked brain had somehow melded the MMR immunization Henry had been given around _his_ first birthday with the one Haley had made sure Jack got shortly after _he_ turned one. She'd been so proud of the nontraditional school she'd found for Jack, maybe she'd been a little over eager to get him started. She'd been pleased and grateful when they were willing to take her word for the boy's health records in light of his special circumstances.

It wasn't really the school's fault either. After all, the competent, young woman…an FBI agent, no less!...enrolling him said she was certain about his having had two vaccinations for measles. J.J. had assured them that once the medical records were found among Haley's effects, the proof would be sent to the school to be entered into Jack's permanent file.

The administrators had softened their usually strict stance on the requirement. They were blindsided and shocked by the tale of the child's stint under federal protection, his mother's murder, and his father's need to recover physically and emotionally from a truly horrendous experience. Of _course_ it would take time to go through the late Mrs. Hotchner's private papers to find the pediatrician she had engaged for her son after being relocated. Of _course_ they understood the need to give the boy a routine that would allow him to see that, despite tragedy, life moved on. And of _course_ they understood the need to do so sooner rather than later.

The school had trusted her. And Hotch had been in no shape to handle things he'd usually left for Haley anyway.

Now, J.J. felt terrible about not having followed up. The school was probably _still _waiting for the wheels of law enforcement to sort things out…even a year-and-a-half , she'd been distracted by cases, and major changes in her personal life. _But that's __**no**__ excuse._ So she kissed her family goodbye, telling them she'd be back in a few hours, and drove toward Jessica Brooks' house.

J.J.'s sense of guilt, as well as affection for Hotch, and concern at his predicament, had made her promise Morgan she'd, once again, marshal the troops. She already knew Garcia was planning on catering the Unit Chief's recovery, so the combination tech analyst/kitchen wiz, was her first call. When Prentiss' voice answered , J.J. smiled. If there was anyone who could gainsay her guilt, infect her with a cavalier attitude, and give her a casual shrug of the shoulders for her own shortcomings, it was Emily.

"Hola. Esta es la casa de Garcia." The lilt in Prentiss' Spanish delivery would make a caller think they had connected with a magnificent hacienda and had reached one of the undoubtedly numerous staff hired to see to every need and desire of the fabulous Penelope.

"Emily! Moonlighting as Garcia's receptionist?" J.J.'s smile broadened. "Lady in Waiting? Culinary Assistant?"

Prentiss' laughter was like a balm to J.J.'s soul. "Hey! I'm learning how to bake bread over here." Her voice lowered to a whisper. "Mostly I'm watching, Garcia doesn't like to share her kitchen." The volume rose back up to a normal level. "Why don't you come by? We're gonna bring some stuff to Rossi's for him and the sicko."

J.J.'s sigh was expressive of her inner turmoil. "I wish. Actually, I wish I could've stayed with _my_ two guys, but Rossi needs help. I'm heading over to pick up Jack now. Then, I guess someone needs to keep an eye on the both of them for a while, too. So…"

"So…nothing." Prentiss clicked over into business mode; all organization and efficiency. "You bring Jack, but I'll play babysitter or nursemaid or whatever it is they think they need. You've got another family that needs you today." Then she delivered the decisive blow. "Besides, you don't wanna take any chances on hanging out with virus-boy too much and bringing something back with you to Will or Henry."

"Henry's fine for measles. We all are."

"I meant Hotch. And flu."

J.J. was sorely tempted. "You sure? Really?"

She heard the phone being moved about. Garcia's voice came on with its staccato energy that always reminded J.J. of how the tech-savant typed, as well as how she clicked down the Bureau hallways in her glittering, flashing footwear.

"We're bringing tons of deliciousness, J.J.. If the boys give us any trouble, we'll just shove food into their mouths. Don't worry. We may not be moms, but we can handle a Hotch-rocket when it's out of fuel and grounded."

J.J. deliberated for approximately six seconds.

"Thanks, guys. I promised Will I'd spend some time with him today…you know?"

The chorus of cat-calls and whistles told J.J. her friends had opted to interpret that in the lewdest manner possible. It didn't matter. Everything was going to work out and no one would be disappointed or even inconvenienced much.

"Thanks…Really, _really _thanks…I'll see you there."

xxxxxxx

It didn't take Morgan long to install the barricade to Jack's room. It was a tall, wire mesh that could be folded back into accordion pleats. A small locking device that attached to the doorjamb made it secure and childproof. When he was done, J.J. still hadn't arrived with the boy. Morgan put his tools away and decided to look in on Hotch.

He'd seen Rossi going into the room at the top of the staircase before retiring to his own suite. He assumed that was where the Unit Chief had been sequestered. _Probably couldn't make it any further, poor, puking bastard_. Still, even if he hadn't seen Rossi go to the door, he would have known where Hotch was based on the harsh breathing and the occasional soft moan he heard as he approached with quiet steps.

Morgan pushed the door open a few inches. The room was in perpetual twilight with windows covered. He groped about for a light switch on the wall, but when he flipped it on, he found the light bulbs in all the fixtures had been loosened. The only one that came on was a bedside lamp draped with a towel to lessen its illumination.

Using his stealthiest skill, Morgan moved to Hotch's bedside.

He looked down at his boss and shook his head in sympathy. The raspy breathing couldn't be comfortable, but what seemed even worse was the tape wrapped around the man's ribs and the measles rash that looked like a darker discoloration in the dim light, creeping downward and beginning to spread under the leading edge of the bandages.

Hotch's rest was uneasy. Morgan wished he knew how to help, but he really had no idea. He placed the back of his fingers against his friend's forehead, feeling the lingering warmth. Rossi had said the fever had broken, but it didn't seem to have disappeared completely yet.

It always bothered Morgan to see Hotch weakened. Not just because he liked the man and wanted to spare him any pain, but because he had what almost verged on a compulsion to protect him. Watching his leader over the years, Morgan had learned Hotch was made of equal parts courage and compassion. Sometimes he tried to hide his soft heart, disguising kind acts with anonymity. But Morgan always knew that whatever surprise gesture seemed to show up just when it was needed most…a few days off…an invitation to talk…sometimes even a secret visit to a victim's family to offer solace…was traceable to Hotch. Morgan usually found out. And it always touched him.

He pulled his hand back from the warm forehead.

_I wish I could take this from you, man. Or at least share it with you…_

The rich chiming of Rossi's doorbell pulled Morgan away from regrets on Hotch's behalf. Anxious to prevent the sound from disturbing anyone's rest, he cat-footed his way out of the bedroom and sprinted down the staircase.

He opened the door to find J.J., arms full of Hotch's son and the bag that his father had sent with him when the boy was farmed out to Jessica.

xxxxxxxx

Jessica had rushed J.J. in picking up Jack. She was worried about making her flight and wanted to allow extra time in case anything unforeseen popped up during the check-in process.

With the understanding that made her such an asset as a liaison, J.J. had lost no time scooping the sick child up and belting him into the child's seat in her car.

Jack had been dozing. He'd roused slightly and asked for his Daddy in a groggy, little voice that tugged at J.J.'s mother's heart.

"I'm taking you to your Daddy now, Jack." She'd instinctively brushed her lips against his forehead, testing for temperature. _A little warm, but not bad._ "Go back to sleep, sweetheart. Daddy's not far away."

Now she stood on Rossi's doormat as Morgan relieved her of the shoulder bag that contained Jack's belongings. When he reached out for the boy, J.J. turned her shoulder toward him and shook her head.

"I've got him, Derek. Just show me where to put him."

Morgan cast a critical eye on Hotch's son. "Kid's out, but he's doing a lot better than his Dad…that's for sure."

"Shhhhhh." J.J.'s voice was hushed. "Don't say anything about Hotch that might worry him, okay?"

Morgan bowed to the young mother's superior knowledge in the art of handling children.

"Sorry." His voice rose on a hopeful note. "But Rossi says his Dad is better than he was last night. Fever broke for the most part, I guess."

J.J. nodded approval at the more positive subject matter, and followed Morgan up the stairs to the room Rossi had prepared. When they reached it at the far end of the long hallway, Morgan stood back, waiting with expectant pride for some praise at the solution he and Reid had devised to keep the Hotchners apart.

J.J. blinked.

J.J. stared.

J.J. frowned.

J.J. spoke.

"No, Derek. No."

Morgan's smile faded. The puffed chest sank in a trifle. He looked at his handiwork, wondering what J.J. was seeing that he wasn't. "What?" He tried to present the contraption's finest attributes. "You can see through it, so he won't feel all isolated. It's safe…no sharp edges or anything. And I guarantee it's childproof."

"It's a cage, Derek." J.J.'s voice was low. She bounced the boy in her arms slightly, keeping him soothed and silent. "I'm not putting him in a cage."

It was Morgan's turn to blink in disbelief. "But…"

"Take it down. Now." J.J. turned her back and carried Jack away from any noise that dismantling the barrier might produce. "We're going downstairs. When it's a room for a little boy, and not a zoo installation, we'll be back."

Morgan watched the retreating back, stiff with feminine disapproval.

Sighing, he retrieved his toolbox. Morgan made it a priority not to get into arguments with females. He made it an ironclad rule, bordering on law, when the females were mothers.


	9. Hero

Hotch opened his eyes to watery slits, gave a weak cough, and decided he felt…really, really, _really_ bad.

He listened to the faint, sporadic whine of a power drill somewhere beyond his closed bedroom door. The sound puzzled him, but he couldn't muster enough energy to pursue any line of thought about why such a noise was here in Rossi's home. Truth was, he just didn't care. There was only one thing he _did_ care about. One thing upon which it was worth expending what little reserves he had.

Jack.

He didn't know how long he'd been asleep. The darkened room was easier to tolerate, but confused him about how much time had elapsed since Dave had taken him in. Ordinarily, he'd have been able to use hunger as a gage, but he found he had no appetite at all. He turned his head, hoping to see a clock on the nightstand. There wasn't one…but there was a pitcher of water and a glass, as well as an unopened can of ginger ale.

Hotch pushed himself up, leaning on his elbows and taking a woozy look around the room, wondering with a sick man's illogic, why things weren't clearer from the perspective of being a few inches higher than when lying prone.

The only epiphany he had was that he was thirsty, and he wouldn't mind a trip to the bathroom. At least it was a goal…something toward which to strive. And maybe, along the way, he'd encounter something Jack-ish. It was the best he could do under the circumstances. The thought of his son…somewhere out there…was enough to spur him onward.

After a valiant struggle with the bedding, Hotch attained a sitting position on the edge of the mattress. He panted with a wheezing sound that even his blunted thought processes found disturbing. So he rested, trying to catch his breath, leaning forward and congratulating himself on the small victory of escaping from the sheets and blanket that had seemed bent on holding him hostage. Realizing he needed to fuel the body that was letting him down if he intended to search for his son, Hotch stared at the liquid refreshments displayed on the nightstand. But…

He couldn't seem to keep his mind on one track. Things were dispersing and wavering and flowing around and away from him. He had trouble focusing, but at the center of the confused maelstrom was an image of…Jack.

Hotch gave up any thoughts of personal comfort in favor of finding his son. He launched himself off the bed and, using convenient pieces of furniture as well as walls, he made his way to the door.

If the child was out there, he would find him.

xxxxxxx

Morgan sighed deeply several times during the deconstruction of the wire mesh barrier.

It would have been a secure, safe way to contain Jack and keep the Hotchners apart. He was sure, given the first opportunity, the sick boy and his father would abandon all reason, seek each other out, and happily nuzzle until all their viruses and germs were transferred, one to the other. He didn't understand why J.J., as a mother, didn't see that _any_ means that prevented such an exchange was laudatory and should be embraced wholeheartedly. But she didn't. And she wasn't even open to debate.

Morgan sighed again and reverse-drilled the screws out of Rossi's expensive, polished doorjamb, rendering the barrier…useless. He was deep in his own thoughts when he heard a shuffling, dragging sound approaching. Looking up, he saw a Hotch who was definitely not at his best, wandering down the hall.

"Whoa…whoa…whoa…whoa…whoa…where do you think you're goin', boss-man?"

Hotch blinked at his co-worker, bracing himself against the wall, completely unaware of how much he was swaying and how alarming he looked.

For his part, Morgan saw a man in his boxers, with his ribs bound, a rash rampaging down his sides, and a look on his face that was akin to that of a lost child. A lost, _determined_ child. It was a sad, tattered remnant of the man's wolf-eyed scowl.

"Ho-o-o-o-tch? What're you doing?"

Hotch gripped the wall as best he could, raising his chin to address the challenge he imagined in Morgan's voice. He stated his two goals, punctuating them with a coughing fit. "Jack…Bathroom."

Morgan set down his tools and looked his boss up and down. He took in the unfocused, defiant expression on Hotch's face and his own morphed into pure concern. "Ahhh, man. C'mere."

Without waiting for any response other than the rasping, panting, hacking of a half-breath-half-cough, he stepped up to Hotch and reached out to him. But touching the sick, measle-ridden man was a bit more complicated than Morgan had thought. He didn't want to make contact with the rash. The only other options were the bandages over his ribs, or his boxers.

Morgan chose the former. Knowing the tender spot Hotch sported on his left side, he used extra care wrapping his fingers around the taped area. Turning his boss around, he moved him back toward his bedroom, speaking in the most persuasive tones he could.

"You're forgettin', man. This is Rossi's crib. Just about every bedroom has its own bath."

Morgan was surprised in a bad way at how easy it was to control Hotch. _This guy's as weak as a kitten. Shouldn't be wandering around without someone to catch him if he passes out. _A vagrant, mischievous thought flitted through his mind. _Maybe that barricade might still come in handy._ But when he heard J.J.'s soft, steady steps ascending the staircase, he wisely shelved the idea.

xxxxxxx

J.J. had stayed downstairs with Jack, rocking him and crooning comforting words about his Daddy. When she heard the faint sounds of Morgan's drilling stop, she thought it might be time to bring Jack back up. And _this_ time she hoped to find a room meant for human occupation…not a space geared toward containment of a wild animal.

Carrying Jack and his bag of possessions, she kept her eyes lowered, careful not to trip on Rossi's sweeping, marble stairs. She continued the soothing chatter, reassuring the boy that his Daddy needed rest, but they'd see each other soon. So it wasn't until she'd reached the landing and heard Morgan's "Uh-oh," that she realized it might have been a better idea to wait until he'd come down to tell her the hated barricade was gone and it was safe to come up.

J.J. raised her eyes and saw a sick, disheveled, half-naked Hotch squinting reddened eyes at her. The cowlicks that he battled daily, trying to maintain a neat, professional appearance, had won. The hairs on his head stood out in spiky abandon, flaunting their disobedience; triumphant at last.

His skin was patchy with rash. The binding around his midsection made her think he'd injured himself in some way. She wanted to tell Morgan to be careful grabbing him around the ribs. The way his powerful hands were gripping Hotch looked risky. But she also wanted Morgan to get Hotch out of the way before Jack roused enough to realize his Daddy was mere steps away.

It was already too late to sneak past, or to retreat the way she'd come.

As unsteady as he was, Hotch had seen his son. He resisted Morgan's attempts to get him through the doorway of his room, clinging to the jamb with a desperate, tenacious hold. He flattened his body against the wood as Morgan tugged at his waist, trying to dislodge him and push him deeper into the darkened bedroom.

"Jack?" As gravelly as the single word was that rasped out of him, it was enough. Hotch's son recognized the beloved voice. J.J. felt the sleepy, heavy head on her shoulder lift.

"Daddy?"

Morgan kept trying to strike a balance between manhandling Hotch and avoiding doing him harm. It wasn't going very well. The man was clinging to the doorjamb like a human suction cup.

xxxxxxxx

Rossi had managed to ignore the sounds of Morgan plying his tools. Being exhausted helped. He'd drifted off for a couple of hours, but now whatever was going on out in the hallway was too much.

Rossi awoke to what was either the muted sounds of a struggle, or a small herd of heavy-footed hippos frolicking on the landing. When Mudgie raised his head from his position at the foot of the bed, tilted it to one side and gave an inquisitive whine, Rossi decided further efforts to sleep would be useless. He emerged from beneath the covers, slipping on a robe as he went to the door.

Mudgie, seeing that appropriate steps were being taken, gave one approving bark and nestled down, intent on resuming his nap.

Rossi shook his head, grinning ruefully as the dog closed his eyes and heaved a sigh. _Don't mind me, Mudge. I'll just go deal with the intruders. You get on with your beauty sleep. _

xxxxxxx

"Oh, for Pete's sake…" Rossi cinched his robe tighter and went to help Morgan pry Hotch off of the woodwork.

He brushed past the two men, retrieving a blanket from the bed. Returning, Rossi edged Morgan aside, draping the blanket over Hotch's bare shoulders.

"You don't need to force him, Morgan. He's sick. And judging by how he was last night, he's probably not thinking clearly. The harder you try to make him do something, the more he'll resist, just because…well…that's Hotch." Rossi gently rubbed the trembling body still plastered against the doorjamb through the thickness of the blanket, encouraging it to relax.

He glanced up at J.J., holding Jack and trying to keep her distance. The child was watching the proceedings through heavy, listless eyes. But deep within them, Rossi fancied he could see a little glow of warmth. Daddy had been found. _Poor kid's sick, too. Probably doesn't even realize his Daddy's in worse shape than he is._

"Hi, Jack." Rossi tried to sound as though seeing one's father half-naked and hugging a wall was an everyday occurrence. Nothing to be concerned about. "Your Daddy picked up the same kind of sick you did, kiddo! He's gonna be fine, but for right now, do you think you can go with Ms. Jareau and let Daddy get some rest?"

Jack nodded. A huge yawn indicated he wouldn't mind another nap himself.

When Rossi had mentioned Jack's name, Hotch looked up. Resisting Morgan had taken all his concentration. At the height of their struggle, he'd squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his head, pressing into the doorjamb with every dwindling ounce of strength. Now he felt Rossi's gentler touch and risked loosening his hold. He trained a watery eye on his son and managed to make a sickly smile still look utterly blissful.

"Hey, Buddy…"

"Daddy." Jack gave a sigh of contentment, snuggling deeper into J.J.'s shoulder while still keeping his gaze fixed on his fast-fading father. As J.J. edged past the men and continued down the hall to the room farthest away, the two Hotchners maintained eye contact, breaking only when J.J. turned the corner and disappeared with her young charge.

Jack had found his hero. And the hero had found his treasure.

Once again, all was well with the world.


	10. Differing Standards

Once J.J. had tucked Jack in and made sure he was sleeping as comfortably as he could, she headed back toward the room where Hotch had made his stand, trying to meld himself to the doorjamb.

She looked through the doorway, but didn't enter. As concerned as she was about the Hotchners, she was still cognizant of the fact that she could easily bring something unpleasant home to her own family. She knew they were all up to date on flu and measles shots, but having seen firsthand how little Jack Hotchner was feeling, she worried anyway. As it was, she planned on putting her clothes in the washer and showering before distributing hugs to Will and Henry.

So, despite her natural inclination to help, J.J. hovered at the entrance to Hotch's room, observing, but not participating.

Hotch and Rossi were nowhere in sight. Morgan was changing the sheets on the bed, tucking in corners with military precision. He glanced up at J.J. and shook his head.

"You saw that, didn't you? How those two are?" She knew he was referencing Hotch and Jack. "The second they're left on their own, they'll be all up in each other's business." He shot her a look rife with the pain of having been judged unfairly. "That…uh,…_containment device_…would've kept them nice and safe and separate."

J.J. bristled. "A _cage_ is _**not **_a humane way to treat a child, Morgan. _Ever. _We'll find another way; one that won't make every mother on the planet want to kill whoever came up with the idea."

Morgan mumbled something under his breath about having used a similar method before with no ill effects. J.J. felt the small hairs on the back of her neck rise.

"Derek, tell me you did _not_ put a child in a cage just to keep him out of the way." Her voice went low, outraged.

"It worked fine."

J.J. spoke through gritted teeth, debating entering the darkened room, the den of sickness, just so she could smack some sense into her co-worker. "Who…did…you…put…in…a…_cage_...Derek…._Who?_"

Morgan concentrated on bundling up the sweat-soaked sheets he'd removed from Hotch's bed. When he answered, it was with his back turned and his head down. J.J. didn't quite catch it.

"_**WHO?**_"

"Clooney."

"Your _dog? _You equate Hotch's son with your _dog?_"

Morgan dropped the bundled bedding, finally straightening, and looked at her, defiance in every line of his body. "Clooney's family. And I'd never do anything to hurt him."

"Cloo…?" J.J. ran a hand through her hair, unable to find words for an argument that, in her opinion, had just jumped the tracks and thundered off into the land of the absurd. She closed her eyes and counted to three. Taking a deep breath, she looked up at Morgan, who, regardless of trying to defend his position, really did want J.J.'s approval and had already decided that maybe he should revisit the advisability of using caging…maybe even in Clooney's case. Maybe.

"Where's Hotch? How's he doing really?" J.J. decided to pursue a different, less emotionally-charged subject.

The tension eased out of Morgan's shoulders now that he was on tamer conversational ground, and the expression in J.J.'s eyes wasn't so accusatory. He shrugged, nodding toward one of the closed doors on the far side of the room.

"Rossi took him to the bathroom. Cleaning him up a little, I guess." Morgan toed the bundle of used sheets he'd dropped on the floor. "Guy got pretty sweaty last night." The look he turned on J.J. was filled with concern. "Delirious, too, Rossi says."

"He's better now." It was second nature for J.J. to offer compassionate reassurance when faced with another's worries. "He wouldn't have been able to hang on to that wall the way he just did, if he wasn't better."

"Nah…When it comes to Jack, that man'll dig so deep he'll put himself six feet under." Morgan sighed. "He's really sick. Weak, too."

Before they could go into any further analysis of their leader's condition, the bathroom door opened and Rossi escorted a damp-looking Hotch back to the bed. The elder agent gave his co-workers a weary look as he eased Hotch down onto the edge of the mattress.

The Unit Chief slumped forward as far as the binding around his ribs would allow. He looked glazed and wobbly. Rossi poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the nightstand, shook out two of the buffered pills the doctor had provided, and knelt in front of the dejected-looking man.

"Aaron? Aaron, look at me." The eyes rose, but focus was debatable. "Two things and then you can rest, okay?" Focus was no longer debatable; it just…wasn't. "Take these." He extended his hand, palm upwards, pills displayed.

Hotch's head tilted down, nose pointed at whatever Rossi was referring to as 'these.' He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to make the world's details clearer. When he squinted at the pills again, he swayed where he sat.

"Oh, man." Morgan rubbed a hand over his face, shaking his head at how far away from 'well' his boss was.

"C'mon, Aaron. Two little pills and you're halfway done."

"He's 'done,' alright…" Morgan heaved a sigh.

Hotch bleared up at his critical colleague. In a last act of willful defiance, he rallied enough to grope the pills out of Rossi's palm. He tossed them into his mouth, almost losing his balance in the process. Rossi steadied him, a hand gripping his shoulder. Hotch accepted the glass of water and swallowed his medicine.

"Drink it all down, Aaron…you can do it…" Rossi was acutely aware of how much Hotch had sweated and how little intake of liquids he'd had. "Atta boy…"

He returned the now empty glass to the nightstand. Hotch started to lean to one side, preparatory to lying down, but Rossi arrested the movement, still controlling his friend with one hand on his shoulder.

"Not yet…not yet…One more thing, Aaron." Rossi rested fingertips lightly against Hotch's bandaged midriff. "You need to take a couple of breaths. As deep as you can."

He couldn't tell if he was making himself understood. When the sick man gave him what he interpreted as a blank look, Rossi decided a demonstration was in order. Still on one knee, the better to make eye contact with Hotch, the older agent stretched his torso upward, filling his lungs to capacity. The image of an Italian opera singer readying himself to deliver a full-throated aria passed through his mind.

"D-e-e-e-e-p breath, Aaron. C'mon…d-e-e-e-e-p breath."

Seeing the quizzical expression on Hotch's face, Morgan joined in, contributing his own depiction of deep breathing to the effort.

"Like this, Hotch…" Morgan inhaled, letting his chest enlarge to an impressive girth.

From the doorway, J.J. couldn't help filling her own lungs in sympathetic support of her co-workers' exertions, hands making graceful, expanding motions in accompaniment.

Still swaying slightly, Hotch turned irritated eyes from Rossi to Morgan to J.J.. He brought his gaze back to the man kneeling before him, still illustrating the concept of maximum inhalation.

All three froze at the Unit Chief's hoarse voice.

"Jeez, guys. 'M sick, not stupid. Know how t' breathe."

xxxxxxxx

Hotch's exertion from when he'd resisted Morgan, and the several deep breaths he'd finally taken under Rossi's supervision, drained what little reserves he'd had. Sleep claimed him moments after his head hit the pillow.

Rossi picked up the bundle of bedding destined for the laundry. Side by side, he and Morgan observed their unconscious leader. When he rubbed absently at his side, Rossi stepped forward, taking the hand and pressing it down with a firm touch. He glanced at Morgan.

"Need to keep him from scratching that rash."

Morgan grunted assent, adding his own concern. "Need to keep him away from Jack, too."

"Thought you and Reid had that solved." Rossi frowned. "Isn't that why you were vandalizing my woodwork?"

From the doorway, J.J. cleared her throat. It was loud, attention-getting.

"You don't cage a child to keep him under control, Rossi. You should know that. Just keep the doors to both boys' rooms closed and we'll keep an eye on them."

She relented when she saw the weary, sleep-deprived look the older man gave her. "Get some rest, Rossi. I'll make sure Hotch and Jack stay away from each other. Emily and Garcia are on their way. They'll take over when I leave."

Rossi yawned hugely. "Maybe you're right, J.J. I just thought it was more important to keep them apart, and I didn't see how I'd be able to make sure of that by myself."

"You're not by yourself. We're here."

Rossi gave his team members a warm smile. "Thanks. Both of you…_All_ of you."

He walked back out into the hall and looked toward the far end where the wire mesh barrier had been rolled into a rough cylinder and propped against the wall. He shook his head. Glancing at Morgan, he spoke in a low whisper.

"Woulda worked on Mudge…"

"I _know_!" Morgan's tone said he still felt grievously misunderstood.

J.J. watched the two men walk away; Rossi to his bed, Morgan to clear away the offending barrier and his tools. She could imagine the whispered conversation concerning the illogic of women when it came to acceptable standards of childcare.

She decided to keep watch until the barrier was safely downstairs and stowed in Morgan's truck.

Just in case.


	11. Enter the Bat-Cam

Once Morgan had tidied away the mess he'd made, he seemed reluctant to leave.

J.J. tried to set his mind at ease.

"All three guys are asleep. Nothing's gonna happen, Derek." When he glanced upstairs, then looked her up and down, J.J. knew exactly what he was thinking. "And if any one of them gets frisky or adventurous, don't think I can't handle it." She softened her words with a smile. "After all, I was taught by the best."

Morgan relented, mirroring this woman's gentle smile that could make the harshest words seem affectionate.

"And I won't be alone for long. Garcia and Prentiss are heading over with food. Soon."

Morgan nodded, turning his worries from present to future. "Okay for now. But Hotch and Jack are gonna find a way to reach each other. How'll you keep that from happening? Huh?"

"By treating them _both_ like babies." She chuckled at the furrowed brow that spoke of skepticism for her method, and suspicion for the apparent fount of knowledge that she'd acquired since attaining parenthood. "Just go home, Derek. I'll…."

"…call me if you need me?" He finished the sentence for her, both of them knowing it was the assurance he wanted to hear before he could leave.

"Promise."

He nodded, turning toward the ornate, front door of Rossi's mansion.

"And Derek?" He looked back. "Thank you."

"For what?" Morgan frowned, unable to find anything worthy of gratitude in his recent behavior. _I erected a contraption that struck horror into the depths of her soul, and I wrestled a sick man by grabbing him around the weakest part of his body, when all it took to control him was a blanket and a hug._

"For caring enough to be here." J.J. beamed that sunlit smile that made Morgan want to put a cage around _her_ to keep her safe and unchanged. She was too special to lose to danger, or to the passage of time. And if she couldn't always make everything alright, she _did_ make everything easier to bear.

"You're welcome, J.J."

Despite accomplishing nothing, Morgan left with a smile.

He would never tell, but when he got home, he pulled Clooney onto his lap and had a long, therapeutic discussion with him about the debatable merit of cages.

Lots of biscuits were involved, much to Clooney's approval.

xxxxxxxxx

Within minutes of Morgan's departure, J.J.'s phone chimed, announcing Prentiss as the caller.

"Hi, Em. Everything okay?"

The answering voice wavered a little. "Um…yeah…yeah, everything's fine."

J.J.'s read-between-the-lines antennae went up, her own voice taking on an anxious tone. "What's wrong. C'mon…spill it."

"No..no..nothing. It's just…" Prentiss descended to a whisper. "Garcia made a _lot_ of food. I mean a _LOT_…ya know?" She returned to normal volume, signaling the arrival of Chef Penelope. "And we'll be there in about half an hour. As soon as we finish, uh, loading the _cars_."

"Cars? As in plural? More than one?"

"Yeah. _Cars_." The whisper returned. "It's a _lot_ of food!"

J.J. stifled a chuckle. Garcia never did anything in a small way. Going overboard, whether in the sartorial or the culinary arena, was just part of her nature. The excess applied to her heart as well. Whom Garcia loved, Garcia overwhelmed. And she would always love the stern-looking leader who not only overlooked her eccentricities, but secretly admired them.

Hotch and Jack were about to be engulfed in Penelope's avalanche of care. J.J. thoroughly approved. The Unit Chief's normally Spartan existence could use a little excess a-la Garcia.

"Well, I guess it's a good thing Rossi has that over-sized fridge and freezer, then. But, Emily, can one of you make a stop on the way and pick a couple things up?"

"Sure. Wha'd'ya need?"

"Just some things from Babies"R"Us." J.J. could hear question marks filling up the silence on the other end of the line. "Let me explain…"

xxxxxx

J.J. stayed around long enough to help unload the dizzying array of food, and to make sure Prentiss and Garcia knew the importance of keeping Jack and Hotch separated. She decided to let Garcia assemble the baby monitors she'd had them pick up, along with applying the decorations and stickers that would make using them almost more fun for Jack than snuggling into his Daddy's warm, but rash-covered chest.

"These were kinda pricey." Prentiss was studying the receipt she'd fished out of the bottom of the store's brightly-colored plastic bag.

"They're worth it." J.J. was admiring the state-of-the-art device. "Actually, I think I'll keep one when we're done with them here. Henry might have avoided measles, but he's bound to pick up something along the way. Kids always do."

Garcia was in her element. She ignored the instruction booklet, letting her savant-sense for all things digital take over. Once the small, color monitors were connected to the remote unit that functioned as a combination moveable camera and microphone, she played with the control buttons edging one monitor. The camera panned around, swiveling on command to pick up each of her colleagues with hi-def precision.

"This is way cool, Sunshine." The camera moved, focusing on the second bag of purchases. "And now for the _really_ fun part!" Reaching over, she spilled out a glittering, rainbow pile of craft supplies.

J.J. smiled at Penelope's enthusiasm. "Actually, I was thinking, if Jack feels up to it, you guys could do the decorating part together?"

"Oh…uh…yeah…sure…sure..." Garcia made an effort to curb her desire to start altering the plain, white plastic casings _now_.

Prentiss was trying out the second monitor set, a considering look on her face. "I might want one of these, too. Be kinda fun to watch Sergio online." She roused herself from thoughts of feline surveillance. "So we put a camera in Hotch's room and give Jack the monitor to control it, so he can see and talk to his Dad, and do the same with the other so Hotch can talk to Jack and keep an eye on him?"

J.J. nodded. "Yup. And then, once you decorate them…I was thinking the Batman stickers and stuff would be good…you make it a game. Like, tell Jack his Daddy's in the Bat Cave and he has to stay away or his true identity will be discovered…you know…that kind of stuff."

Deprived of instant gratification when it came to embellishing the monitors, Garcia's eyes lit up again at the prospect of inventing a make-believe story, of playing pretend with Jack, casting his father in the role of undercover superhero. J.J. smiled at her friend's look of anticipation, deciding it was time to make her exit.

"If you guys have any questions, just phone. Derek's on call, too, if you need any muscle."

J.J. wasn't sure, but she thought Garcia's expression brightened even more, turning a trifle lustful at the reference to Morgan's most abundant, natural resource.

xxxxxxx

A few hours later, after Jack had demonstrated enough appetite to put a dent in a bowl of Garcia's signature chicken soup, the project of making a Batman monitor set, accompanied by imaginative tales of Hotch as the Dark Knight, perked the sick child up considerably.

With the added incentive of being able to watch Daddy resting in his secret location somewhere within the environs of Gotham City, once the magical decorating job was done, Jack had as nearly perfect a time as a five-year-old could, considering the circumstances.

Eventually, tired from the excitement of Garcia's company, the boy fought to keep his eyes open. He wanted the Bat-cam deployed so he could see Daddy before taking a nap. Prentiss volunteered to take on the mission; a move Jack thoroughly approved, since the black clothing she favored made him think of her as a spy…capable of doing secretive things and accomplishing dangerous tasks.

Prentiss took the cosmetically altered camera unit, careful not to disturb Jack's and Garcia's handiwork. With exaggerated stealth that made the sick child giggle, she slunk out of the room and into the hallway. The camera was on, sending images of her progress back to the monitor in Jack's possession. She continued the act of spy-on-a-mission as she traveled the distance to Hotch's door.

xxxxxx

Rested and feeling much improved, Rossi decided it was time to check on his houseguests. He could hear the faint sounds of furtive giggling from the direction of Jack's room, which meant the boy's bedroom door must be open. He fervently hoped that Hotch hadn't managed to find his way to his son.

Opening his own door, Rossi poked his head out just in time to see Prentiss executing some sort of odd, crouching walk, arm extended, palm up, holding an object that defied interpretation. From where Rossi stood, all he could tell was that it was mostly black and seemed to have ears. And Prentiss was playing to it. She put her finger to her lips in a shushing gesture right before turning the knob on Hotch's door and disappearing into his room.

Blinking, Rossi decided maybe he'd take a shower before finding out what kind of fanciful charade had invaded his home.

He closed his own door very quietly, retreating to the safety and relative sanity of the master bath.

xxxxxxx

Hotch knew he was sick. There was no denying it; no disguising it. He expected to feel bad.

But he didn't expect to hallucinate.

There was no other way he could explain the thing that greeted his watery, irritated eyes as he lifted his head toward the soft, whirring sound coming from the nightstand.

There was something there. It was black and sinister and it had ears; two pointed things that stood upright. In the darkened room, it still managed to pick up enough light to flash and glitter as it…_moved?_... When it swiveled toward him, clearly fastening its attention on him, Hotch's first impulse was to make it go away. But he was too weak to take any action.

He tried to stare it down. But illness had robbed his glare of its power.

The thing perched there. Whirring at him. Watching him.

Hotch groaned and buried his face in the pillow.

Maybe if he ignored it, it would get bored and go away on its own…

Or maybe if it hung around long enough, it would catch measles and be miserable...

_Serve it right..._

Hotch drifted off, dreaming of engaging in his own, private, germ warfare with The Thing On The Nightstand.


	12. Gustatory Gifts

Rossi lingered in his suite. Whatever madness was taking place in the hallway seemed benevolent enough. He didn't think Prentiss would have been creeping so extravagantly into Hotch's room if the man had already migrated over to his son.

Of course, he had to admit he couldn't think of _any_ reason for what he'd glimpsed.He still didn't know what the eared thing in her hand had been. But there would be time enough to find out what he'd missed after doing a quick check on the Hotchners, and making some coffee.

_Best to leave it alone. Until someone screams. Or a smoke alarm goes off. Or sirens converge on us._

It was late afternoon. He felt his internal clock was in need of adjustment, and the only way he could think to accomplish that was caffeine. Showered and dressed, Rossi opened his door with extreme caution. Nothing untoward was in the hall.

He went to Jack's room first. Peeking inside, he could see the boy's form under the covers, sleeping. He crept closer. What might be the twin to the thing with ears that Prentiss had been carrying, was by the bedside. Rossi frowned, leaning in for a closer inspection. When he realized what it was, he smiled, sensing J.J.'s maternal touch. When he found Jack clutching a monitor with a live, if murky, image of his father in his darkened room, the smile spread to a grin. Suddenly the Batman décor made sense. And if he could feel J.J.'s touch in the bones of the setup, the ornamentation screamed Garcia.

Rossi was sure he'd find the other monitor in Hotch's possession. It made him feel better about being able to circumvent any premature reunion of father and son. But when he saw the image on Jack's monitor writhe, kicking free of a blanket, and when a soft moan came over the speaker, he decided viewing and listening privileges would be less than twenty-four seven. He didn't want Jack upset if Hotch descended into delirium again. He disengaged the monitor from the boy's grip and switched it off, careful not to dislodge the decorations depicting a fierce and rampaging Bat-hero. He propped the small screen against the eared camera/microphone, slipping a stuffed tiger under Jack's arm in its place.

_So far, so good. Next stop, Hotch. Then, coffee._

Halfway down the hall, Rossi's phone rang. When he read the caller ID, he flipped it open, thinking that some people were blessed with naturally good timing.

"Hey, Marty. How's it going?"

The welcome voice of Dr. Palmer came back at him. "Hey, yourself. I'm good. How's our patient? Resting? Itching? Behaving?"

Rossi halted out of earshot of either Hotchner's room. What had begun as a chuckle, faded into a sigh as he recalled the previous night, and the portrait of Hotch's childhood that had emerged.

"I stayed up with him. He had a rough time of it." The doctor could hear the concern in his friend's voice. "He hasn't eaten anything. I got him to drink a little, but not enough. The fever seems to have broken, though…for the most part…I think."

"And his son? Is he there, too?"

"Got here this morning. Had some trouble keeping them apart at first, but…" Rossi's lips quirked upward at the lingering bat-images in his mind. "…but I think that issue's been resolved for the moment."

"Good. How 'bout I drop by in a little bit? Take a look at them. That work for you?"

Rossi's tone conveyed gratitude and relief. "I _really_ appreciate your help, Marty. Really."

The friendly, jovial voice became somber. "I owe you, Dave."

"No, you don't. Not this long afterwards."

There was a pause, during which Rossi heard his friend swallow and take a breath.

"I will always owe you. And so will the thousands of people I've helped over the years. All those people I wouldn't have been able to help, if you hadn't…" Another pause told Rossi the doctor was tamping down emotion, staying calm and serene as a physician should. When he continued, he'd regained control "I will _always_ owe you, Dave. But it doesn't feel like an obligation. It feels like a privilege….And I'm not about to give up my right to owe you. Got it?"

Rossi didn't have words for the enormity of what he was hearing. So he settled for something basic, straight from his heart.

"Thank you, Marty. For helping my friend. For _being_ my friend."

"See you soon, you old dog." The lightness had returned to the doctor's voice. The connection ended.

Rossi doubted they'd ever revisit the subject of debt again. There was simply no reason.

No more needed to be said.

xxxxxx

Rossi entered Hotch's room with care, letting his eyes adjust to the dimmer illumination.

He couldn't help feeling worry give birth to a butterfly or two in his stomach. Compared to his son, Aaron's rest was troubled. Rossi had to remind himself that Jack was further along in the disease's course. And children had an easier time of it anyway. And Hotch had been hit with a double whammy: flu, too.

Still, when he listened to the small moaning sounds and watched the restless movements, Rossi was glad that someone with medical expertise was on the way. At least he wasn't sweating as much as he had the previous night. But his liquid intake wasn't sufficient to stave off dehydration.

Rossi moved closer and saw the Bat-cam aimed at Hotch. He also saw a second monitor propped against the water pitcher. A slumbering Jack was plainly visible in his more brightly lit room. He smiled at the placement. All Hotch had to do was glance toward the nightstand and it would be the first thing he'd see.

_Probably the best medicine of all._

xxxxxxxxx

Having checked on his guests, Rossi entered his spacious kitchen in search of coffee, only to find Prentiss pouring kibble into a bowl and having a conversation with Mudgie about the etiquette he would need to follow, if… "And it's a _big_ 'if', Mudge."…he was allowed to visit Jack.

From what Rossi heard, 'lickies' and 'jumpies' would be frowned upon, possibly resulting in banishment. The look the dog gave the agent preparing his dinner was compassionate and wise; the large, brown, canine eyes signaling subservient cooperation.

"Don't believe him, Emily." Rossi made his way to the coffee maker, ruffling the dog's ears in passing. "He's a kibble junkie, and he'll agree to anything for a cup of the stuff. Isn't that right, Mudge?"

The dog gave his master a tragic look, full of the pathos of being misunderstood. Then, tail wagging, he attacked the bowl of food, accompanied by loud crunching that gave weight to Rossi's accusation.

"See what I mean?"

Prentiss sighed for the duplicity of man's best friend before turning her attention to her co-worker. "How're you guys doing? J.J. said you were up with Hotch all night."

"I'm fine." Rossi poured a cup of coffee. "I wanna thank all of you for helping out."

"No problem." Prentiss bit her lip, hoping Rossi would have the opportunity to open the refrigerator. Garcia had left once Jack had dozed off. She'd accomplished her task of supplying enough provisions to stave off starvation for several weeks. Once the fun part of the visit was over…the story-telling and crafts session with Jack…she'd been happy to let Prentiss take over.

Now, Emily was waiting for…

Rossi brought his steaming cup to the huge, stainless steel, double-door refrigerator. One of the small indulgences he allowed himself was using a dash of real cream in his coffee when he was at home.

Emily lifted her chin in anticipation…

"I won't lie, I'm a little worried about Hotch." Rossi looked over his shoulder at his colleague, speaking as he opened the steel door.

Emily's spine straightened in anticipation…

"But an old friend, a doctor is coming over…"

Rossi stopped. His hand, groping into the cool interior of his commercial grade, luxury appliance, for the small carton of cream in its customary place on the middle shelf, had hit a wall. A solid wall. Hard.

He withdrew his bruised knuckles, opening the door to its widest…

…and stood before the landscape of food with a look of disbelieving awe. Floor to Ceiling. Wall to wall. Like building blocks. In every color of the rainbow. Some showing labels in foiled, neon colors that shouted: STEW! SOUP! PIE! ENTRÉE! DESSERT! BREAKFAST! SNACK! THREE MIN. IN MICROWAVE! PASTA!...

It was a gustatory Wall of China. A gastronomic Great Pyramid. An epicurean Stonehenge.

Rossi stepped back, the better to take in the entire array towering before him. Culinary hobbyist that he was, priding himself on his authentic recreations of the cuisine of his Italian ancestors…

…David Rossi was humbled.


	13. Housecall

Rossi was still in shock, standing before the edible monument, courtesy of Garcia, when Prentiss delivered the _coup de grace_.

"Uh, Rossi?...Rossi!"

"Huh?" He realized his jaw was hanging and his head was shaking in tiny, uncomprehending increments. He suddenly understood Hotch's occasional retreat into the "I'm okay" mantra. Sometimes a guy just needed a moment to gather himself. But he was a hardened, tough, professional; a minion of an elite government organization. Penelope Garcia and her mountainous offerings would _not_ bring him to his knees. He closed his mouth and held himself steady.

Then he noticed Prentiss was standing with an oversized sheet of paper extended toward him.

It had some sort of diagram on it.

He reached a tentative hand out to accept it. "What's this?"

She was struggling to keep a straight face. "Kind of a map. Garcia asked Reid if he remembered seeing what make and model your refrigerator was." She was beginning to lose the battle to maintain a solemn expression. "Of course he did. So she figured out the interior dimensions and…well…" She lost the battle; the grin erupted in full force. "…so she mapped out how much she could pack in there. This'll tell you what you've got and how deep you have to dig to get to it."

Rossi accepted the diagram, tearing his eyes away from the wall of cuisine before him. He could feel his head beginning to make those little, shaking motions again…in denial of the evidence he held. The meticulously executed, computer generated rendering showed a layered, three dimensional breakdown of the fridge's contents. He studied it for a moment, then looked up at Prentiss.

"Three deep. She went three deep. They're stacked three deep." The arm holding the key to finding a way through Garcia's Maze of Meals dropped. "How…how…"

Prentiss stepped to Rossi's side, joining him in paying awed tribute to the monolithic testament to Garcia's cooking-savvy. Her voice was appropriately reverent.

"I know, I know…. I went over to help her out when she said she was going to 'whip up a little comfort food for you and Boss-man.'" Unconsciously, Emily joined Rossi in the small, disbelieving head-shake. "When I got there, it was too late. She was already too far gone." A note of admiration crept in. "You should see her, Rossi. In that tiny, little kitchen. Everything was so…_orchestrated_…_choreographed_…There was no room for an assistant." Prentiss almost sounded regretful. "All I could do was watch. But…it was too late to intervene."

Rossi responded the only way he could.

"Wow. Just…_wow_…"

xxxxxxx

Prentiss left after Rossi had recovered enough to discover his small carton of cream wedged into one of the shelves backing the refrigerator door.

She clued him in on the Batman role playing that went hand-in-Bat-glove with the monitor situation, and, assuring him that the team was at his disposal and only a phone call away, she left him sipping his coffee and poring over the food map Garcia had left.

She didn't have the heart to tell him that if he flipped the paper over, he'd find a similar key to the contents of his stand-alone freezer unit. As it was, Mudgie had polished off his bowl of kibble and was casting hopeful looks at the bank of containers lining one countertop. The aroma of cookies; sugar, oatmeal, peanut butter, and chocolate chip, apparent to his canine olfactory glands.

Rossi was in the process of realizing that Garcia had arranged her offerings, ranking them from most to least perishable, with those that should be consumed first closest to the front, when the doorbell chimed. Abandoning his coffee and giving Mudgie a stern look filled with strictures against any 'accidental' cookie encounters, he went to answer the door.

xxxxxxx

"Marty."

Rossi ushered his friend in with a warm smile. "Thanks again for coming. And on a Saturday. I thought all you medical types reserved your weekends exclusively for the golf course."

Dr. Palmer grinned. "A vicious rumor started by country club administrators when we began advising our patients to incorporate resistance training twice a week in lieu of a steady diet of golf." He gave his head a disconsolate shake. "It's been hell for our reputations ever since."

"I can tell you're suffering." Rossi glanced toward the kitchen, hearing a noise that made him think Mudgie was seeing how far he could push the unfairly arbitrary boundaries imposed on the pursuit of cookies. "Can I get you anything? Coffee? Scotch?...Cookies?...A four course meal?"

The doctor chuckled. "I take it your cohorts have rallied on your behalf?" His smile broadened. "You always were one to inspire cooperative efforts, Dave. It's a gift."

Rossi covered up a sudden bashfulness at unexpected praise by redirecting his friend's attention. "Well, maybe after you're done, we'll share something." He started toward the stairs. "I have to say, Aaron had a rough night."

"How so?"

"Fever, delirium. Kind of traveled back to his childhood, I think."

Marty looked thoughtful, but kept silent, opting to examine his patient before committing to any prognosis based on hearsay. Even if that hearsay was coming from someone whom he could see cared for the sick man as much more than just his co-worker.

xxxxxxxx

Something cool was resting on Hotch's forehead. It felt…_wonderful_.

He wanted to disappear into it and escape the itching, aching, _diseased_ feeling that seemed to be his entire existence at the moment. When the coolness left, he turned his head toward it in protest, willing it to return. Instead, a cool, calm voice took its place.

"Hello, Mr. Hotchner. It's me…Dr. Palmer. You know: the one with the scar."

Hotch's eyes opened enough to take in the form of the man sitting at his side. He drew on what little strength he had. "Hi, Doc."

His effort was rewarded with an approving smile that actually _did_ make him feel a little better. But his mind immediately wandered to smiles that touched his heart, and the one he wanted most was…

"Jack?"

Rossi had been keeping back, but hearing the hoarse, weak voice with its pleading tone, brought him forward. "Jack's fine, Aaron. He's resting and he's doing great. The doctor's going to check on him next. Jack's fine."

It bothered him to see the glazed sheen in Hotch's eyes. It was the look of a man struggling to understand. Hotch's mind was normally keen and sharp, slicing through nonessentials and grasping the facts and import of situations with phenomenal speed. Now, he looked lost. And maybe a little frightened on his child's behalf.

"Look at me, son." Marty took his patient's chin and turned the gaunt face toward his own. "Focus…focus…Tha-a-a-a-t's right." But the gaze slipped to the side and fastened on something else. Something that made the eyes widen and blink.

The doctor frowned, twisting to see whatever was behind him that was worthy of such a combined look of confusion and…anger?…dread?

xxxxxxx

It was mocking him.

Clearly, The Thing On The Nightstand was enjoying his predicament. And it had everyone fooled. While these other people were present, it behaved itself. It kept still. Flying under the radar. Not drawing any attention its way. Waiting until he was alone and vulnerable.

Hotch wasn't sure if the others could even see it. Maybe it _was_ an hallucination. But mirages faded and wavered. Their corporeal presence was spotty at best. The Thing On The Nightstand had a stolid, solid, substantial quality about it. It leered at him with evil intent and low character. He could tell it was a Thing of rudeness. It probably had bad table manners.

It wasn't going anywhere.

And if the others couldn't see it, figment or not, the responsibility of defeating it, or at least making it retreat, fell to him.

_Die, rat-bastard! _Hotch lunged.

At least, he thought he did.

xxxxxx

"Whoa!" The doctor caught his patient's shoulders as he made an odd, abortive attempt to roll over, and eased him backwards until he was once again flat. He pinned the man down, keeping a steady, gentle pressure, until he was sure there would be no more sudden movements.

"Going somewhere, Mr. Hotchner?"

"I think it's this." Rossi reached behind Marty's back and picked up the Bat-cam. "He was staring at this."

Hotch watched in horrified fascination as Dave palmed the Thing. If they could see it, touch it, then it wasn't an hallucination. But that meant that it…and all the nasty things it stood for…were _real_. He cringed backward for a moment, then renewed his resolve. The Thing still needed to be taken down. If it came close enough…

"Look, Aaron, it's a remote camera. See?" Rossi masked his concern for Hotch's apparent lingering delirium, bringing the decorated camera unit where the squinting eyes could get a better view of it. "Jack made it for you."

And that seemed to be the magic phrase.

"Jack?"

"Uh-huh. It's Batman. See?"

Hotch wove a little as he pushed himself up on his elbows, giving him a closer look at the Thing that suddenly didn't seem so ominous.

Rossi reached over to the nightstand again, picking up the monitor that was keyed to the camera in Jack's room. "And he has one, too…So you can see each other. Look…There's Jack."

Hotch took the monitor and gazed blearily at the little boy engaged in peaceful slumber. Slowly, a smile spread across his face. He laid back, turning on his side and holding the monitor close.

"Jack."

The word was no longer a question, or a demand, or something to worry over. It was an expression of love. To Hotch, it was the most beautiful word in the world.

Rossi watched his friend cuddle down with the monitor. He saw the doctor take his stethoscope out of his bag. "He's still really sick, isn't he." It was a statement more than a question.

He met Marty's eyes as he glanced up.

"Oh, yeah. As a dog…."

Mudgie would have taken issue, but he was busy in the kitchen, having discovered and perfected the fine art of popping Tupperware tops off containers bearing cookies.


	14. Secondhand Son

Dr. Martin Palmer was a prudent physician. He did a thorough examination of Hotch before coming to any conclusions or deciding on any plan of action.

Rossi kept a close watch over the proceedings. He paid particular attention to the expression on his friend's face, hoping to glean clues as to how Hotch was _really_ doing. Not that he didn't trust Marty to give him an honest evaluation; he just wanted to be forewarned in case the prognosis was bleak. For his part, the doctor could feel Rossi's concern like another presence in the room. It was unfortunate that it would prove well-deserved.

"Relax, Dave." Marty reached into his bag and withdrew a blunt-nosed pair of scissors. "He's not going to die. But…," he added with regret, "neither is he going to enjoy life. For a while, at least."

"But the fever's down. That's good, right?" Rossi felt the need to grasp at something positive.

"Course it is. But…" The doctor was exercising extreme care clipping through the dressing snugged against Hotch's ribs. He'd decided it would be easier on his patient than unwinding it. "The thing is…this is the eye of the storm, Dave."

"How d'you mean?"

"I mean, the fever he had was from flu. As bad as it was…and he's still not completely over it…there's a much worse fever associated with the measles that's still to come." Marty glanced up from his work. "The rash and the fever tend to spike simultaneously. We need to see that he's as far recovered as possible from the first before the second, worse one, hits." He returned to snipping through the layers of tape, leaning close to Hotch's chest in the dim light.

"You were right when you said he hasn't taken in enough liquids. We need to encourage him to drink as much as possible. That and the periodic deep breathing are important." He paused as Hotch gave a weak, dry cough, placing a palm over the left side where the ribs were most vulnerable to re-injury, steadying them until the spasm passed.

When Hotch was quiet again, the doctor peeled back the now severed bandages. Rossi heard his sigh and stepped closer, looking over Marty's shoulder. The rash had spread, covering ribs and stomach, headed down the waist and toward the hips.

The doctor shook his head in sympathy. "You sure you don't want him hospitalized? Would make it a lot easier on you, and we could get him hydrated intravenously."

Head turned to the side, Hotch had been gazing into the monitor still clutched in his hand, watching Jack's easy rest. At mention of a hospital, he roused.

"No. No hosp't'l. Please, no."

Marty laid a hand across the warm brow and studied the look in his patient's eyes. Something there stopped him from engaging in any persuasive tactics. This man's reluctance was more than merely dislike. Something deeper and darker than that lurked in them. He stroked some hair back into place and nodded. "Alright. No hospital. But I reserve the professional right to change my mind, if I think it's for your own good, Mr. Hotchner."

"Aar'n. Name's Aar'n."

The doctor smiled. "I'm Marty. And I mean what I say, Aaron. I'll do my best to let you stay here, but if things change for the worse, I'll do whatever's necessary for your recovery. Understand?" The glassy look he got wasn't very reassuring, but Marty forged ahead.

"Stay with me, Aaron. Dave and I are gonna get you up and to the bathroom. I'll sponge you down with something that'll make that rash a little less itchy. Then you're going to show me how deep you can breathe, and you're going to drink as much water as you can. If we can keep up a routine like that, you'll probably be able to avoid hospitalization. Okay?"

Hotch cast a sad look at Rossi, pleading for understanding. "No hosp't'l." The eyes grew even more soulful as he made the connection between staying put and the imposition it would be on his friend. "Sorry…sorry…sorry."

Rossi had a hard time keeping his feelings from showing on his face.

The apology was too reminiscent of the words Hotch had muttered during his delirium. Too much like the child begging his father not to punish him for being ill.

xxxxxx

Hotch put up a manful struggle to cooperate, but he wasn't fooling anyone. Dizzy and weak, he couldn't control the cough or the sniffling. He seemed to have progressed past the explosive sneezing stage, but his sinuses were still painfully congested. However, the prescription strength, anti-itch spray the doctor applied to the rash was a blessed relief. He hadn't realized how uncomfortable he was until the irritating itch was suddenly subdued.

He breathed deep on command, grateful when he felt Marty's hands bracketing his sore ribs, supporting without compressing. He was vaguely aware that the procedure was being explained to Rossi, to be performed as regularly as possible after the doctor left, and they were on their own.

By the time he'd drunk more than his fill and been assisted back to his bed, Hotch was exhausted…and despite his groggy state of mind, well aware that he was too sick for Jack to join him. So he pulled the monitor close and fell into a doze, unable to keep his eyes open, but pleased that the last thing he saw…the vision he took with him into sleep…was his son.

Marty watched as Rossi tucked his friend in, pulling the light blanket up and caressing it into place with a gentle touch. He noted the deeply affectionate gesture as the older agent smoothed the younger's hair as well as each individual eyebrow with a thumb.

And he thought he understood.

He moved to stand beside Rossi, joining him in watching Hotch. Both men were still, observing the signs of sickness; the hollowed cheeks, the raspy breathing, the occasional shiver despite perspiration appearing on the pale face. Marty broke the silence.

"Sometimes I wish I'd gone a different way...and had a son like that."

Rossi shot him a sidelong look. All he saw was sincerity and a certain sadness for the path not taken.

"Why didn't you?"

The doctor shrugged. "I was a moving target. Never in one place long enough to make it work." He chuckled, giving his head a rueful shake. "Who'm I kidding?…I wouldn't have given up my job for anything. I…had…to save…the world." He grinned, glad he could be honest with his old war buddy. "You?"

Rossi matched his friend's shrug. "I tried to make it work. Three times. Finally got it through my thick skull that some people aren't meant for marriage…for family." A slow grin appeared. "And who'm _I _kidding? I wanted to save the world, too."

A moment of silence passed, both men contemplating where their choices had led. When he spoke again, Rossi's voice was softer.

"But then I found _him_. I dunno, Marty. Something…just…clicked. Swear to God,…of all the people I've met in this sad, old world…this is the one that brought out the father in me." Rossi swallowed, surprised at the lump he felt in his throat; the sting behind his eyes.

With professional sensitivity, the doctor waited, letting emotions settle before continuing the conversation.

"What about him? Does he feel the same way?"

Rossi's smile was the kind men get when they realize fortune has dealt them an unexpectedly wonderful hand. "I think so." When the smile vanished, Marty glanced at his companion.

"What?"

"His own father was…a monster. He's dead, but sometimes I wish I could resurrect him just so I could…" Rossi tapered off, unwilling to give voice to just how much he hated Hotchner Sr.. Especially after Aaron's fevered journey into the past.

"Is that how he got some of those scars?"

"The ones you see are from a different monster. The ones from the father, you can't see. But they're there." Rossi sighed. "God help him, they're still there."

A few minutes of silence passed. Then, the doctor ended the conversation the way it had begun.

"Yeah. Sometimes I wish I had a son."

Rossi's grin returned. He bumped his friend, shoulder to shoulder. "We could share? Wanna?"

Marty's answering grin was thoughtful. "Ya know, Dave…I just might take you up on that. But first, what's his aversion to hospitals? Where'd that come from?"

Rossi rubbed a hand over his face. "That has to do with _both_ monsters in this man's life." He noticed movement on the monitor Hotch still held. "Why don't you check on his son, and then we'll sit down for a bit. I'll tell you some more about Aaron."

Marty nodded. "That offer for scotch or coffee still on?"

"So's the one for cookies or a four course meal."

xxxxxxx

Down in Rossi's elegant, epicurean kitchen, Mudgie burped and decided two dozen oatmeal and peanut butter cookies was enough. He turned his attention to the Tupperware lids he'd pried off.

They made great chew-toys.


	15. Fireside Chat

Jack's examination was much easier and more optimistic than Aaron's. He was in better shape than his father, and was even enjoying the novelty of staying in Rossi's mansion.

The only fuss came when he realized his monitor had been turned off and he couldn't see Daddy anymore. Rossi tried to explain the concept of privacy, but in the end he caved to the junior version of the Hotch glare, turning the monitor back on. He had a feeling Aaron wouldn't be doing much of interest for some time anyway. The only concern was if he descended into delirium again.

So Rossi was hoping for a surreptitious opportunity to turn down the device's volume. Seeing his father toss and turn in restless sleep wouldn't be upsetting. Hearing ravings about his abusive childhood, or any other adult-themed parts of his past, would be. But the boy was fastened to the image of Hotch and Rossi was beginning to despair of getting a chance to make any adjustments.

The perfect distraction appeared in the form of a waddling Mudgie.

The dog gave his master a sidelong look…one that Rossi found inexplicably rife with guilt…and then clambered up onto the child's bed. Rossi noticed Mudge didn't leap and wondered if he'd somehow understood Prentiss' injunction against 'lickies' and 'jumpies.' The dog cuddled up against the sick boy and heaved a contented sigh, much to Jack's delight. While he was patting the animal's distended, rumbling tummy and whispering all manner of endearments into the floppy ears, Rossi turned the monitor's volume knob all the way down.

In the end, Hotch's son was nicely settled; able to see Daddy, even if Daddy was kind of boring at the moment, taking great comfort in his canine companion, and engrossed in the coloring books and puzzles J.J. had made sure were on hand.

He even had enough of an appetite to brighten when Rossi suggested some milk and cookies…a rare treat when dinner wasn't far off. Hotch was careful with his son's nutrition. But Rossi, whom Jack called 'Poppi,' to the doctor's delighted amusement, tended to be lenient about such things. Especially when one was ill and in need of a small luxury or two. Especially when one's Daddy wasn't there to see.

Marty smiled at the scene. It gave even more credence to his observation that Dave looked on Aaron as his own.

The doctor packed up his black bag as Rossi headed downstairs to assemble the tray of treats intended to tempt a sick boy's appetite.

Marty had only just stepped out into the hallway when he heard Rossi's roar…

"_MUDGE! What the hell did you do in here?!"_

The doctor reached behind him, giving the child and the decidedly guilty-looking dog a nod, he closed the bedroom door. _Doesn't do much good to shield the boy from things he might hear over that monitor when there's probably a lot worse being shouted out downstairs._

xxxxxxxx

Marty got his friend to calm down. But he had to admit, the sea of crumbs and twisted Tupperware pierced by fangs, scattered across Rossi's terra cotta tiled, kitchen floor were…impressive.

He also smiled when the disgruntled dog owner added a bowl of water to the tray he brought upstairs, mumbling something about how that much sugar was likely to make Mudgie thirsty.

When Rossi returned, shaking his head at the sight of his dog lying on his back, belly exposed to the soothing strokes of Jack's small hand, the two friends cleaned up the mess in the kitchen. Rossi looked rueful.

"Sorry about this, Marty. I didn't call you over here to do housework."

The doctor smiled. "I expect to be paid in scotch…and cookies…" He gave a gusty sigh. "…_if_ that hound of yours left any intact, that is."

Things moved along at a cheerier pace when it was discovered that Garcia's chocolate chip and sugar varieties had escaped. At last, with sizeable glasses of Rossi's finest scotch and a plateful of assorted cookies, the two men settled into the soft leather armchairs in the den. Dave had a blaze going in the fireplace. The scene was set for what both instinctively knew would be a long, perhaps troubling discussion.

xxxxxxx

"So where do I begin?" Rossi stared into the mesmerizing flames, feet resting atop a brocade- covered ottoman, glass of liquor perched on the arm of his chair.

Marty assumed a similar pose. "Why don't you start by explaining his aversion to hospitals?" The doctor sighed. "You know I'll do my best, but there's a possibility he might _have_ to be admitted."

Rossi rubbed his face with one hand, following the gesture with a sizeable gulp of his drink. "When the fever had him last night, he thought I was his father for a moment." The doctor started to smile; after all, it was a role Dave wanted to play. But the look on his friend's face stopped him cold. "He kept begging me not to hit him…not to punish him for getting sick."

"Ah…no…" Marty felt his stomach clench. Over the course of his years in practice, he'd seen his share of battered children. It was his private opinion that recovery was never one hundred percent. The adult always carried an echo of anger and pain in his soul. Like pieces of jagged, emotional shrapnel that could never be removed entirely from the wound. He had a sinking feeling that what had surfaced in Aaron was just the tip of the iceberg; a frozen mass submerged, rooted in a lifetime of horrors.

Despite the twist in his stomach, he took his own healthy sip of scotch. "Go on."

Rossi kept his voice to a low monotone. The words that would paint Hotch's reality were strong enough without added emotion. "From what I've gathered over the years, the physical abuse was horrendous. The emotional abuse must have been just as bad, if not worse. He tries to hide it, but there've been a few times he's let me in."

"He trusts you." The doctor offered what little support he could.

Rossi nodded. "More than he trusts himself. He lives with the fear that someday he might show himself to be his father's son; that he'll abuse Jack."

Marty sighed. "I've just met those two, but I consider myself an excellent judge of character. It's something you develop when your life, your career, is people-based." He shook his head, voice sad. "Neither one of those boys upstairs has any meanness in him." He glanced at Rossi. "Don't get me wrong; a man can do horrible things when pushed far enough, but that's acting _out_ of character. I'm sure your Aaron has done his share of damage, being in the line of work he is. But there's no meanness in him. He won't abuse that child."

Rossi nodded. "I know. And you know. But somehow…he doesn't."

Both men gazed into the flames for a moment before Rossi returned to the original issue that had started them down this darkly shadowed path.

"He was in hospitals several times a year thanks to his father."

"No one noticed? No one objected?" Outrage was doing a slow build in Marty's voice.

Rossi sipped his drink. "Nope. It was a small town and Monster Daddy was a powerful man. Aaron was betrayed on every front. People who should've done something…didn't." His voice broke, but recovered. "He grew up thinking he wasn't worth helping."

"Damn."

Silence reined as each pictured what kind of strength it would take to survive being assaulted repeatedly on such a deep, emotional level. Especially when the victim was too young to have developed any defenses on his own. And when he'd learned not to expect escape or release or help of any sort.

Marty was the first to speak. "You said there were two monsters in his life."

Rossi nodded. "That's where the scars you saw came from. Man who murdered Jack's mother, the only woman I think he ever really loved. He did it over the phone so Aaron could hear everything."

"Dear God." The doctor emptied his glass. His host refilled for them both.

"The scars came before that, though. The murderer wanted to show his dominance over Aaron. He tortured him for hours. With a knife. Ended up that Jack and his mother had to be put under federal protection. Aaron wasn't allowed to know where they were, or to have any contact whatsoever."

The doctor's voice was strained. "So how did it end?"

Rossi cleared his throat. "Aaron killed the bastard with his bare hands. I don't think he's ever reconciled himself to having done that. In his mind it validated the fear that he could become an abuser to his own son….to have that much violence inside him."

Marty leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "That's not how it works."

"I know that. You know that." Rossi sighed. "Somehow…he doesn't."

The doctor opened his eyes and leaned forward, considering what he'd heard. "There's always more to a story like that…to a man that shattered. But are those the bones? The main structure?"

"Mostly. Just that Jack's mother had divorced him because of his dedication to his job. One of the few things that gave him a feeling of validation ended up costing him dearly." Rossi swallowed the lump struggling to emerge in his throat.

"One more thing. Aaron said to me once that if the people who are supposed to support you, stand by you, _love_ you…like parents and spouses…_don't_,…then maybe there's something wrong with you. His words were: 'They can't all be wrong.'"

"So he still feels worthless. Deep down. Where he hides his biggest secrets." Marty sighed. "There're a lot of damaged people in the world, Dave. But this is one of the worst things I've ever heard."

The two men sat in somber silence, finishing their drinks.

The doctor finally broke the the spell of quiet horror trailing in the wake of the tale of Hotch's life. "You know, it takes an incredible amount of sheer courage, and talent, and strength to make something of yourself when that's the hand you've been dealt. I admire your Aaron. He doesn't give up. He's worthy of a great deal of respect."

Rossi nodded. "I know that. You know that. Somehow…he doesn't."


	16. Bedside Chat

After discussing the cruel flames that had forged a soul like Aaron Hotchner, the doctor decided he wanted one more look at the man before leaving. He trudged up the stairs and entered the room where Hotch lay.

For his part, Rossi stopped in the kitchen to pick up Garcia's map of his refrigerator's contents. He intended to let Jack choose from the available entrees for his dinner.

Mudgie, on the other hand, would go supper-less.

_Who'm I kidding?_ Rossi thought as he entered the boy's room to see his dog being massaged and petted; treated like royalty. _As soon as my back's turned, he'll be feeding that disreputable, thieving mongrel half of his own meal. IF the beast can cram any more into that bottomless pit of a belly._

He sighed for the duplicity of Man's Best Friend and kept quiet when Jack looped an arm around Mudgie's neck, asking him what he thought about the options Poppi was offering. The winner was Garcia's container labeled MAC 'N CHEESE!

Rossi was grateful that Garcia had considered a child's palate. There were several youth-oriented options included among the more sophisticated fare. A small, warm spark lit up his heart from within. The whole team knew how fragile Hotch's appetite was; how it was always the first casualty when things went awry. Which meant that the savory, more complicated dishes Garcia had provided were probably intended to comfort Rossi. He smiled.

It was nice to be cared for.

xxxxxxxx

Marty entered Hotch's room as quietly as possible. He held his own breath and listened to the harsh sound of his patient's. That was his main worry: the possibility of pneumonia.

At least, it _had_ been his main worry until Rossi had shed some light on the man's past. Martin Palmer was the type of doctor who tried to be aware of emotional healing as well as physical.

Moving closer, he saw the ghostly illumination of the baby monitor casting the chiseled features in a bluish light. The eyes were closed. He assumed Aaron was asleep. But when he tried to disengage his fingers from the monitor so it could be set aside, they tightened, resisting.

"No." It was a small voice; a sleepy, pleading voice. It went straight to Marty's heart.

"Alright. I won't take it away." He sat down at the bedside and watched Aaron come out of his half-doze, becoming aware that he had company. When the glint between the drooping lids was focused on him, Marty spoke.

"How're you feeling, Aaron?"

"'M okay." The scratchy voice belied the words it tried to pass off as truthful. The doctor merely compressed his lips and kept steady eye contact; a ploy that eventually worked, making Hotch feel like the liar he was. He snuffled forlornly. "'M _not_ okay. Sick."

The amended response made Marty chuckle. "Really? Gosh. I wouldn't have known." He was rewarded with a faint facsimile of a smile. It wasn't true amusement…only Hotch's acknowledgement of the absurdity of trying to make anyone believe he was in good health.

The two men observed each other for a few minutes. It was Marty who spoke first.

"I'll be in to check on you every day, but if you'd like to talk about anything, I can stay with you now."

Silence.

Even in the dim light, the doctor could see the considering look in his patient's eye. _Probably knows Dave and I were talking about him. Probably wondering how much I know. And probably hates the thought of having his pain and his past discussed._

Marty tried again.

"We can talk about anything you like…Scars…Anything."

Hotch swallowed the lump of discomfort at a stranger's sympathy. He'd been lying on his side, the better to see Jack in the monitor. Now, a coughing fit claimed him and he rolled onto his back, preparatory to pulling himself upright.

Marty moved to sit on the bed itself. Reaching over, he placed his palm against Hotch's left side where he knew the chronically sore ribs were likely objecting to being bounced, even by what he was glad to see was relatively mild movement; this wasn't the deep, tearing kind of cough. He watched his patient's face until the spasm had passed. While Hotch tried to catch his breath, the doctor tilted his head, peering at the injured area, running a gentle thumb over the ribs. Even through the dressing, he could distinguish each bone. When he found what he believed was the center of the pain…a small ridge where none should be…he sighed. It was either bone or cartilage, but it had the definite feel of wrongness and of permanence about it.

When he looked up, Hotch was staring at him, examining him in turn.

"I'm sorry you hurt, son. I wish there was something I could do."

Later, if Hotch had to pinpoint a moment, an action, that told him it would be alright to talk to this man, that would be it. His scars weren't painful. He could ignore them. But the ribs hurt. They were the injury that symbolized all the horror, and loss, and agony; the reminder that would stick with him for the rest of his life…feeling that large, warm hand take such care to minimize the effect of coughing, and then to locate the center of the pain that was worse and more frequent than he would ever admit…and then, the compassionate sorrow in the doctor's eyes, knowing the injury, the pain, were defining elements of his patient's life. And not treating him clinically, like a case to be assessed and discarded.

That was when Hotch gave himself permission to show a little weakness, to take someone besides Dave into his confidence. But he moved forward with caution, alert for any sign that he'd made an error in judgment.

"Hurts."

"I'm sorry, son." Marty repeated himself. There wasn't much more to be said on his part. The words that counted, that might ease a little pain, had to come from Aaron. He could tell he was being evaluated. This was a time to use all his skill to create a safe place for this damaged soul to share at least some of its burden. He decided to stick with discussing the physical; he'd let his patient take the lead about anything emotional he cared to reveal. Marty moved his palm back over the epicenter of the rib injury.

"Does it feel better with heat or cold?"

The sigh Hotch gave was so deep, the doctor could feel a muscle-wince over the rib area. It had hurt.

"Dunno. Dunno anymore." The tone was defeated. Hotch relaxed back into the bedding, demonstrating trust by taking a position that let Marty's hand have unimpeded access to the vulnerable spot at its most exposed.

Marty knew it. It was a test of sorts. He smiled inwardly and kept his hand over the ribs. "You've had this too long to be able to make such fine differentiations in levels of pain anymore." His sigh was sympathetic commiseration. "So…I'm going to stay here and see if keeping it warm makes a difference." He saw Hotch's chin lift a little, wondering how far this kindness would go…what its limits were. "And while we're waiting for you to feel any difference, the offer to talk is still open. Otherwise, I'll just sit here and try not to intrude on your thoughts."

For a few minutes, it seemed his patient had opted for silence. Hotch closed his eyes and kept quiet, but let the hand on his side remain undisturbed. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost dreamy.

"What'd Dave tell you 'bout me?"

Marty smiled. He felt he'd won the battle. Aaron was going to let him in.

"Enough for me to know he loves you like his own. Enough to see he considers you and your son family."

A brief couple of coughs stole the doctor's concentration as he once again tried to stabilize the damaged ribs. When they had passed, he moved his hand in a circular pattern, not quite a rub…gentler and lighter than that…barely moving at all. Hotch found it remarkably soothing. It took any bite out of his next question.

"What else? D'd he tell you 'bout the scars?"

'_The' scars…not 'my' scars. He's not ready to admit ownership. He still needs that distance to handle the experience._ Marty knew he'd have to proceed with care. Nonetheless, honesty was the only way to ensure the conversation would continue, and have any merit when it concluded…however it concluded.

"He didn't go into detail. But he did tell me how you acquired them…and others."

Hotch's eyes opened, trying through the haze of illness to decipher any hidden meaning. Realizing he just wasn't up to it, he came to the same conclusion the doctor had. Hiding would do no good. Either the disguises were discarded, or this would just be wordplay.

And he was so tired of feeling alone. The people who wanted to help him, like Dave…he just couldn't dump all the sadness inside him onto them. He couldn't lay the darkness in his spirit out like a sidewalk vendor's wares spread out for display.

He worried that they wouldn't be able to handle the big mess he felt he was. Or, if they could, if they were strong enough to shoulder his burdens better than he could himself, he was afraid they'd regard him with contempt. Too weak, too damaged, too _worthless_. He heard the word hissing in his father's long-dead voice.

A tear formed in the corner of his eye, but he hoped this stranger who might be safe to talk to, who might have the distance to be able to handle him without either being sucked down, or shown what a fraud this big, brave boss-man was…he hoped this stranger might mistake the tear for his measle-inflicted vision's reaction to light.

Marty watched, still letting his hand cup the injured ribs, still dispensing warmth.

_My God. Dave was wrong. He isn't all scarred up inside. He's still got open wounds._ He waited for a measure of calm to return. And refused to notice the tear.

Or the ones that followed.


	17. A Layman's Guide to Tears

Hotch was never more grateful for a man's silence than he was for Marty's.

The doctor sat beside him, maintaining a warm touch on his tender ribs…and said nothing while his patient cried. Hotch was painfully aware of the spectacle he made. Crying wasn't a pretty business…even less so when the one doing it already had reddened eyes and a noisy, wheezing way of breathing.

But every time he risked a glance, Marty's expression managed to convey that he not only accepted what Hotch was doing, he approved it. And when Hotch's stomach muscles contracted, and he tried to conceal the descent into outright sobbing, the doctor's free hand massaged them, keeping them from stressing the ribs he continued to protect beneath his steady palm.

xxxxxxxx

It took Rossi some effort to excavate the MAC 'N CHEESE! that Jack wanted for dinner. Even with Garcia's accurate, scaled map, he managed to take a wrong turn or two. It worked out for the best, though, when he uncovered a container marked TIRAMISU! along the way. It would be perfect as an evening treat….Something to share with Marty, if he was so inclined after checking on his patients.

Rossi heated Jack's selection, bringing it upstairs on a tray along with milk and some of the salve the doctor had brought for the boy's rash. Although the son was in much better shape than the father, he still was suffering the itchiness, dry cough, and runny nose that attended even the lightest case of measles.

Rossi passed by the door to Hotch's room, hearing Marty's voice speaking in low, soothing tones. Satisfied that the sick Unit Chief was in good hands, he continued on, intending to make sure Jack didn't cave before Mudgie's soulful eyes, and end up giving the dog a share of the steaming bowl of cheesy pasta.

The boy was indeed distracted by his canine companion. He'd rifled through the remnants of arts-and-crafts items the ladies had brought him, looking for something to decorate the dog. Mudgie was now sporting several stickers in the shape of gold stars on his broad, wet nose. Apparently the mutt would put up with anything if it increased his chances of an encounter with melted cheese. He had an unerring talent for endearing himself to the hand most likely to offer forbidden treats.

While Rossi was shaking his head and chuckling over his star-encrusted hound, his eye fell on the monitor. His cheerful expression faded. He couldn't be sure without taking a closer look…and he didn't want to risk drawing Jack's attention by doing so…but it looked as though Hotch's eyes had taken a turn for the worse. Either that or he was crying.

Rossi's first impulse was to go to his friend, but he trusted Marty to know how to handle whatever was transpiring. So he moved the monitor out of the way, telling Jack it was a precaution to prevent misadventure in the form of Mudgie's snout, which, as Rossi suspected was already dotted with cheese. He kept the boy company, intending to bathe and medicate him after he'd finished eating. He hoped a bedtime story or two would keep his mind off wanting to see what his father was doing.

Rossi's mind, on the other hand, was filled with questions and concerns, completely occupied with Hotch.

xxxxxxx

Hotch struggled. He didn't understand why it was so difficult to get himself under control. He was a little ashamed of himself when he finally did.

"S'rry…s'rry…s'rry…" He gasped out his apology through congestion made exponentially worse by crying.

Throughout his ordeal, Marty's faithful hand had never left his ribs, simultaneously protecting and consoling; its warmth a constant focal point in the emotional tempest that had ambushed Hotch without warning. The hand was still there as he tried to catch his breath.

The doctor's words were soft, but a little puzzled. "What're you sorry for, son? You haven't done anything wrong."

"S'rry…f'r … _THIS…_"

"Ahhhhhh." Marty nodded, looking like a wise, old sage who'd just found the key to the ultimate Truth Of The Universe. "I see. Crying's wrong, is it?" He continued to nod, looking reflective. "Ahhhhhh, yes. With all our knowledge of human behavior; all the science that's gone into studying it, quantifying it…we now know that crying's wrong. Well…Wha'd'ya know…My word….That's something."

Hotch was hiccupping himself down from the uncontrollable sobs that had wracked him. But even in the aftermath, along with embarrassment and discomfort, he could feel the nudge of Marty's gentle humor. He started to smile, but was still too close to the storm he'd just weathered. The impulse to grin felt too much like the grimace that accompanied tears.

The doctor understood. There was a fine line in Aaron's mind between what he'd accept and even applaud in others, and what he'd allow himself. Marty tilted his head, giving a considering look to his hand still firm against his patient's side. "Did we do any more damage here?" He kept doing the light, almost-rub, soothing the injury without stressing it.

Hotch shook his head, grateful for subject matter that was a safe distance away from his feelings. "'M okay."

"I know…I know…you're just a regular little ball of sunshine. C'mere, son." Marty reached his arms around the body still trembling with reaction from the emotional tsunami, and raised Hotch into a hug. He could tell the man was uncomfortable, afraid such closeness would encourage the release of more tears. But he held on until some of the tension eased, taking unfair advantage. At the moment, he knew Hotch was too weak to refuse. He couldn't resist, couldn't fight back. But physical comfort was what he needed. So that's what Marty gave.

After a few minutes, the doctor pulled back, peering at his patient's face. "Let's get you cleaned up a little." He stood, helping Hotch out of bed, supporting him toward the bathroom. "Then we'll come back here, and you can tell me why crying's wrong. And I'll tell you what I think about that."

"'S'not wrong." It was a snuffled admission; spoken under his breath, as though Hotch didn't want to be heard, and was just saying it to set the record straight in his own mind.

But unlike Hotch, Marty's hearing wasn't diminished by congestion. He nodded. "You mean it's not wrong for _other_ people. Just for you."

Hotch gave him a wary look. He didn't like being easy to read. And he wasn't sure he had the strength to stay awake, let alone try to explain himself.

And he never liked being the center of attention.

xxxxxxxx

After a bathroom break, during which the doctor made Hotch breathe deeply again to help keep his lungs clear and stave off pneumonia, he settled his patient back in bed with a glass of his personal sickroom favorite, ginger ale.

In the face of Hotch's uneasy silence, Marty took the lead.

"I don't think you realize just how sick you are, young man."

Squinting and wavering as he drew himself up, trying to sit taller, Hotch aimed for a defiant look. But the picture he presented was pathetically reminiscent of a baby bird suffering vertigo and teetering on the edge of its nest…in danger of falling at any moment. "I know 'm sick."

Marty sat back and observed the man. He needed rest and should at least attempt to eat. It was necessary to build him up before the fever attached to measles struck when the disease peaked. _We might have two or three days; four at the most._ He sighed, brow furrowed, but schooled his voice to be welcoming, inviting, nonjudgmental.

"If you feel like sleeping, go ahead and let yourself drift off. But if you don't, maybe you'll tell my why you think you needed to apologize for crying."

It looked as though he might do so again, Hotch's reluctance was so plain to see. When he gave a light cough, the doctor moved close, placing his hand on the sore ribs as though it belonged nowhere else. "We never did establish which was more beneficial; heat or cold."

"S'rry." It was out of his mouth before he realized it. Hotch closed his eyes and lowered his chin, hiding from the fact that he didn't want to think about why apology was his first response in situations that revealed weakness.

Marty resumed the light, circular, massage over the rib injury. "Everyone cries. You know that. Hell…some people do it as a recreational activity. That's why tearjerkers are such a hot item in the movie business."

"I know." It was a very quiet response. The person giving it clearly wishing for anonymity, for a safe hiding place.

The doctor sighed. "Do your muscles ache, Aaron? Do you feel weak?"

Hotch nodded, confused by the change in conversational direction.

"That's because you're sick. Your body heats up as it fights viral infection. In turn, your fluid levels drop. The first place you feel it is your muscles. They ache and they won't respond the way they normally would." The doctor saw a cautious look on his patient's face; the man wasn't capable of making any cognitive leaps and connections in his present state. He needed to be led to the conclusion Marty wanted him to accept.

"The same thing is going on with your emotions, Aaron. You're weakened and you're not responding the way you normally would." Marty shook his head. "I'm afraid it's out of your hands, son. If your mind is stressed, it's going to engage in some unsettling, uncharacteristic outbursts." He made a point of catching Hotch's glance. "Nothing you can do about it. No point in fighting it. No point in apologizing." He touched his patient's chin, bringing his line of vision into more direct contact.

"Not…your…fault, Aaron. Not…your…fault."

Hotch nodded, more because the doctor's hold on his chin was making him do so, than because he grasped what he was being told. He was just too tired.

Marty saw the signs of weariness.

"You need to try and eat something, son. I'm gonna go see what Dave has on hand." He released the chin and gave the ribs a gentle pat as he stood. "I'll be right back, but we still have some things we should talk about…if you're up to it. No rush."

Hotch watched the doctor leave. He was too sick and tired to really wrap his mind around the finer points of Marty's diatribe concerning his illness and its effects.

But he had the feeling he'd been given some sort of gift.

His stomach untwisted a little. He had just enough energy to retrieve the monitor; just enough left to smile when he saw Jack letting Mudgie lick a bowl of something orangey-yellow…and, judging by the dog's enthusiasm, very tasty.

When Marty returned with a cup of Garcia's chicken soup, his patient was fast asleep.


	18. Property Of

Hotch raised his hand, clearing a wide swath through the condensation on the mirror.

Uncertain how he came to be there, he stood before the moisture-beaded glass and stared.

At first he thought his face was blank, expressionless. Safe. But when he raised his focus from the scars mapped across his torso, he could see, deep within his own eyes, echoes of a faint, very quiet, very private horror…traces of terror.

At first he thought he was alone. But something was forming, emerging out of the misty steam that made everything, except his own damaged reflection, gray and insubstantial. The voice came first. Before the rest had fully materialized.

"What'd'ya think, Agent Hotchner?" A hand reached around from the back. Fingers claimed the intimate privilege of touching his naked, exposed skin. "This one's my favorite…" The index finger moved slowly down the worst, widest, most prominent scar. A raised, white line running down the center of him. Separating the halves of his ribcage; the halves of his life. Before and After. The finger took its time. Feeling. Savoring. Taunting. Ridiculing. Humiliating.

Hotch's breath was growing short. The hand stopped on his belly and flattened, pulling him back against the body standing behind him. The other arm came around to press against his chest, keeping him in place, keeping him under control.

The only movements he could make were to shift his eyes, helplessly watching his own defeat. And to tremble. The awful, involuntary shivering that broadcast his fear and weakness, bringing a low, nasal chuckle from his tormentor. With the intimacy of a lover, the arms encircled him…the hands explored him. He knew without even trying that he was mute. Incapable of sound…except for a thin whimper. It made the man behind him laugh.

Hotch felt warm, dank breath tickle the sensitive hairs inside his ear. "You're my favorite, Agent Hotchner. You're my masterpiece." The hands pressed tighter, making it hard to breathe except in shallow, gasping bursts.

"I love you, Agent Hotchner…You're mine." The chuckle sounded again. "Well…_ours_, really…You're _ours…_Aaron… Aaaaaron…"

Hotch's eyes were drawn to the space in the mirror over his shoulder. He'd known the voice. He wasn't surprised to see George Foyet leering at him, running admiring fingers over his sadistic handiwork. But then the words became a chant, and the chant was picked up by the other one, the one contemplating him with barely-veiled hate.

The implacable face stared back at him with eyes too like his own. "You're ours, Aaron… Aa-ron…Aaaaa-ron…ron…ron…run…run…_RUN_! You worthless, little piece of…_RUN_!"

_Dad…no…PLEASE…sorry…sorry…sorry…_

xxxxxxx

Hotch's eyes flew open.

Sweating, panting, disoriented. _Sick. I'm sick. I remember I'm sick. Not real. Just a dream. Not real._

Still, he coughed and craned his neck, searching the darkened room for any unwanted intruders…even imaginary ones. _No one. Just a dream._

His eye fell on the monitor. He pulled it closer, feeling the need to check on Jack. His heart spasmed when he saw two shadowy figures looming over the boy. It relaxed just as quickly when he realized his son was fast asleep, with Dave standing by as Marty conducted a brief examination.

Hotch startled when he saw Rossi pick up the twin to the monitor he was using. He closed his eyes and feigned sleep. He knew it wasn't logical, but he just didn't want them to think they should look in on him. After the dream, he dreaded two men standing over him, no matter how benign their intentions. No matter who. _Please…just leave me alone…alone…alone…Safer that way…alone…_

Sick, and scared, and weary, Hotch tried to blank his mind and escape into unconsciousness. But he kept hearing, against the backdrop of Foyet's sneering whispers, the dead voice of Hotchner Sr., threatening him, laughing at him, yelling at him.

He finally dropped off, thinking how the one name he'd never heard his father call him was "son."

xxxxxx

"Boy's doing well." Marty spoke in a whisper, folding the earpieces of his stethoscope down and stowing the device in his bag.

Rossi picked up Jack's monitor, checking to make sure Hotch was resting quietly. Placing it on the nightstand where it would be visible, should the child wake and want it, he ushered both Marty and Mudge out of the room before speaking. Once in the hall, he kept his voice low.

"What was going on with Aaron earlier? Things looked a little…_intense_."

The doctor gave a long, sad sigh. "Yeah. I'm afraid we've got some problems on our hands with that one."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning he's not anywhere near healed when it comes to his past."

"Damn." Resignation permeated Rossi's words. "What happened?"

Marty shrugged. "He's one sick boy. The physical weakness spilled over into emotive territory. I explained to him how one can liken the ache of muscles withstanding viral attack to uncontrolled outbursts of emotion…"

"Marty…" Rossi interrupted.

"Yeah, Dave?"

"You mean he lost it?"

The doctor nodded, abandoning the professional plateau for one closer to a common ground he could share with his friend. "Yeah. He lost it."

The two men stopped outside Hotch's room, listening for any disturbance. Rossi edged the door open and peered into the darkness. After a few minutes, he pulled it closed. They continued their way downstairs.

"He's asleep." Marty sounded pleased.

"He's faking." Rossi was decisive, sure.

"How d'you know?"

Rossi's smile was grim. "He was _trying_ to be quiet. That wheezing congestion sounds a lot worse when he's not trying to control it."

The doctor hesitated, looking back. "Should we check on him?"

"No." The agent kept walking down, step by step, Mudgie keeping pace. "He only does that when he doesn't want anyone around. Whenever he's not quite up to par, he tries to hide it. Feels safer when no one's looking at him."

Marty sighed. "That doesn't sound good. Sounds like another aspect of his past. I'm thinking they're not all scars…they're some open wounds making that man's soul bleed. Am I right?"

They'd reached the bottom of the stairs. Mudgie headed for his pet door in the back and a long overdue visit to his favorite shrubs and trees. Rossi raised his nose and remembered the TIRAMISU! glaring its neon label out at him earlier. He gave his old friend a sad nod.

"If you wanna talk about it, I've got something sinful in my fridge. It'll make the discussion a lot more palatable."

The doctor raised his chin, taking a long, speculative look at Dave. "I'm guessing it's something Italian…sweet…and richer than a coupl'a old men like us should indulge in more than once every few months." His look grew even more calculating. "Which means…tiramisu? Am I right?"

Rossi grinned. "So far, you're batting a thousand…about Aaron _and_ the dessert."

xxxxxxx

Penelope Garcia couldn't go cold turkey.

She had to wean herself away from the extended bout of practicing her culinary art that had been set in motion by Hotch's illness. As sorry as her large, empathic heart felt for her beloved Hotch-rocket and his offspring, rocket-in-the-making, firecracker-Jack, she had welcomed the opportunity to immerse herself in the fragrant, tasty, blissful world of cooking.

Garcia adored browsing through markets, hunting for obscure ingredients she would never consider purchasing for her own, single consumption. She reveled in setting her creativity free, in taking a recipe and using it as a jumping-off place for something unique with a Garcia signature of deliciousness about it.

So, as packed as Rossi's refrigerator was, she couldn't…just…stop. She needed an encore.

And there was one member of the Rossi household that hadn't yet been on the receiving end of her generous, gastronomic gifts.

Now, Garcia frowned as she shopped, reviewing her own foodie-profiles of the personalities involved.

Hotch was iffy at best. As much as the team kept an eye on him, his ability to consume mass amounts, or even moderate amounts…wasn't.

Jack's appetite had been taken into consideration. Sweets and child-friendly entrees abounded.

And she'd particularly delighted in providing Rossi with some selections that she was sure would rival even the best five-star restaurants his deep pockets could afford.

Which left one other appetite to consider. She roamed the aisles of her favorite Farmer's Market, selecting only the finest ingredients. Peanut butter, bacon, cheese, beef, chicken, bananas, eggs, maple syrup for flavor. Oats and rice for texture. At the checkout stand, the cashier noticed the bright, happy, colorful woman who always made him smile. She'd been purchasing quite a lot lately, which made _him_ smile in turn.

He rang her up and bagged her groceries, noticing the look of joyful anticipation in her bespectacled eyes.

"Planning anything special?" He liked knowing how people put his goods to use.

"Oh, yes. Yes! Yes! Yes!" The rhinestones sparkled in her hair as she gave him an enthusiastic nod. "I've been cooking for a sick friend…or…er…friend_s_…plural, actually." She pushed her rainbow glasses higher on her nose, gathering up her purchases. "But I forgot someone very important in the rush. Gonna make up for it tomorrow." She giggled and minced off on glittering platform sandals.

"Have fun!" He called after her, but she was already lost in thought, anxious to get home and concoct some delicious treats.

Garcia's encore…Mudgie.

She just _knew_ Rossi would be surprised and delighted.


	19. Lesser

"I've eaten more sweets since coming to your house than in the last three years." Marty stretched his legs out before him, the better to enjoy the warmth of the fireplace blaze Rossi had rekindled.

The two men had adjourned to the den once more, taking their ease in the Gentlemen's Club atmosphere Rossi cultivated for one of his favorite rooms among the many his mansion boasted. When both breathed deep, contented sighs in unison, both chuckled at their unintentional synchronicity as well. But when the mirth died down, and observation of the weaving, flickering flames turned the mood pensive, the doctor broached the subject that hovered over them, waiting to be discussed.

"I think you need to tell me more about Aaron."

Rossi gave another sigh; this one less of satisfaction, more to do with resignation. "I've given you the bones. What you might call the high points…or rather, low points of his life." He tore his gaze from the mesmerizing fire, turning it on his companion for a moment. "The man's been through a lot. It would've crushed some, but he just keeps soldiering on. No matter how much he's hurting, he keeps going."

Marty nodded, acknowledging Hotch's endurance. "I think that's for his son. If he wasn't responsible for that boy, I think he might stop. From what you've said, I could see him putting on a brave face, while he takes leave of everything he's built for himself…and just disappears; condemns himself to a lesser life, because he's been taught that's all he deserves. Someone who lives out his days brooding, and wondering what _he_ did wrong; why _he_ deserved to be cast aside, like a worn-out, little workhorse who got all used up and, in the end, was abandoned by the side of the road…unwanted." Marty shook his head, feeling sadness well up inside. "Another child of a lesser god…" It was almost a whisper.

"What's that?" Rossi looked up, unsure of having heard his friend's words correctly.

Marty pulled himself straighter in his chair. "'A child of a lesser god.' Got it from the name of a play. Never did see the thing on stage, but the title jumped out at me. Over the years I've kind of paraphrased it, blended it with what I've seen of human nature." He closed his eyes, letting the sadness of the concept wash over him. "The way I see it, if you begin with the premise that God created man in His own image, then, a certain subset of humanity who believe themselves to be innately marred, would say they were created in the image of a lesser god. A being found lacking when compared to He who created all the rest. Ergo, a _person_ found lacking, deficient…lesser."

Rossi stared at his friend. "My God. That's sad….Terrible, in fact. And not exactly how that phrase 'created in His own image' was meant to be taken."

The doctor shrugged, grimacing in agreement. "Don't forget: this is my own construct. There's no official, psychological diagnosis…or syndrome…or theory. It's just the ramblings of an old man who's seen too much." The voice sounded strained. "And whose heart cracks a little more whenever he comes across another Aaron: a fine, brave man who's been injured to the depth of his soul."

The flames claimed their attention again, until Rossi spoke.

"I've told him he deserves to be happy. But…and I haven't said this to anyone else…I'm not sure he agrees. Even worse; I'm not sure he _wants_ joy in his life anymore."

"Why do you think that is?"

Rossi shook his head, stymied by the complexities that formed the wall behind which Hotch hid. "I don't know for sure. Maybe he believes all the bad things he's been told about himself since he was a kid. Maybe he thinks by denying himself any happiness, he's paying some kind of penance. Or maybe he just feels safer sticking with what he knows…loneliness and self-doubt. It could be a scary thing to reach for something better when you've been slapped down so many times. Maybe he's tired of being hurt…just wants to stay still, because it's safer, less painful."

"Seems like safety is a big issue in his life." Marty rubbed his jaw, trying to put himself in Aaron's shoes. "Maybe this is his idea of protecting his son. He's sacrificing himself in the name of stability, so his boy can have a father who doesn't change…who's stable and safe and reliable…never mind that his life is completely mirthless. Aaron didn't have a normal role model to demonstrate how to do fatherhood. Maybe this is his best guess. Maybe it's what he would have sold his soul for when he was growing up."

A long period of silence followed, broken only by the pops and crackles of wood being consumed by the flames in the fireplace.

At last, the doctor levered himself out of his chair, giving a small groan at the effort it required.

"Well, I need to be gettin' on home. I'll be back to check on both boys tomorrow. We can dissect Aaron's personality for the rest of our lives and still never really find out what makes him tick." He cocked his head in the direction of the staircase. "But our priority now is to get some food into him. Build him up before the rash, and the fever that comes with it, take him down again."

Rossi nodded, wishing he could magically transport the food Garcia had provided directly into Hotch's deprived body. He walked his friend toward the front door. "You know, you don't have to leave, Marty. There's plenty of room here. You can stay, if you like."

" 'Preciate that, Dave. But I've got a lady waiting at home. Gotta get back."

Rossi's brows rose. "Really? I thought you and I were such loners…no family…no sons…"

The doctor was hard pressed to keep his grin under control. "My lady's been with me for twelve years now. You'd like her. Glossy black with just a few white hairs starting to show. Beautiful, brown eyes…"

Rossi heard true affection in the doctor's voice. "Why'd you wait 'til now to tell me about her? What's her name?"

A gusty sigh preceded the explanation. "The name's why I waited. It was just too…weird…too coincidental…after meeting your Mudge." Marty turned, ready to make full confession. "My lady's name is Fudge. Prettiest black lab I ever did see."

Rossi was the first to crack. His chuckle proved contagious; the doctor lost his iron grip on lips already quivering with the effort of keeping a straight face. It was a much needed release after an evening of solemn discussion. Mudge and Fudge.

But at the door, the solemnity returned.

Marty slipped into his overcoat and paused, looking toward the second floor landing where both his patients lay. "It occurs to me that Aaron's whole life is an apology; trying to fix things and make up for all the deficiencies he imagines join together and come to rest inside him. All his fault. Unasked for…undeserved. It's a shame. He's never gonna get back the time he's lost feeling like a lesser version…a disappointment."

Rossi joined him, looking in Hotch's direction. "You think two old dogs like us can dig a fox-pup like that out of his burrow? Make him see himself the way others do?"

"I dunno." Marty gave his head a slow, contemplative shake. "Might be too late. Then again…" He shook himself out of his thoughts. "Let's worry about getting him well first. So…food, liquids, and if a deep cough hits him, try to keep his ribs from moving too much. Support and contain. Don't squeeze. Got it?"

Rossi nodded. "Got it. Thanks again, Marty."

The doctor deflected any gratitude with a casual flip of his hand. "See you tomorrow."

Rossi watched him drive away into the night. He closed the door, and checked on Jack and Hotch once more. This time he believed the Unit Chief was truly asleep, judging by the wheezing sound of his congested breathing.

He returned to his den and checked his phone. Messages inquiring after Hotch's wellbeing were stacked up; at least one from each team member. Sometimes more. _That kind of care and loyalty aren't given to men lacking in themselves. _He returned each call, saying that Hotch was holding his own, but wasn't out of the woods, and probably wouldn't find his way out for several days. _At least it's not bad news, even if it's not the best._

Rossi watched Mudgie sneak up the stairs and nose his way into Jack's room. After a few minutes, he followed, making sure the dog wasn't crowding the child or hogging the blankets. Satisfied, he returned to Hotch's room. Pulling up a chair, he sat by the bedside, watching sleep that was restless at best. He thought about everything he and Marty had discussed. But the one phrase that he couldn't dismiss…that kept surfacing…that made his heart ache for Aaron…wouldn't stop running through his mind.

_You're not a child of a lesser god, Aaron. You have a right to be here. You've more than earned your place…a place with the best of them._

And when Aaron mumbled in his sleep…a small, frightened voice from his past…Dave took his hand. And promised he wouldn't let go.


	20. All Roads Lead to Rossi's

Unknown to David Rossi, the troops were amassing on the outskirts of his domain.

He'd returned every concerned call regarding Hotch the night before, texting or speaking directly with each team member, promising to update them if there were any changes. He'd actually been relieved when his call to Garcia was shunted to her answering machine. He'd dreaded telling her about Mudgie's destruction of her highly colored, very unique, possibly custom-ordered, Tupperware lids. Little did he know that the reason she hadn't picked up was because she was elbow-deep in dog biscuit batter, laced with bacon bits, flavored with maple syrup.

Later, in the early hours of Sunday morning, after another restless night with Hotch, Rossi was coming to the realization that he couldn't keep vigil at Aaron's bedside, _and_ look after father and son during the day, _and_ hold to any semblance of a normal schedule, _and_ keep himself from exhaustion…without more help. It was a bit of a quandary for his tired mind.

Tomorrow the rest of the team, minus himself and their leader, would be back at work. Their time wouldn't be their own no matter how much they might wish to donate it.

xxxxxxxx

At the same time, across town, Morgan was keeping himself in check, waiting for a decent hour before dropping in on Rossi. He was anxious to see if Hotch and Jack had come together like the natural forces with which he associated them; like iron filings to a magnet…connecting almost instinctively, with a snap and a strength that would defy all efforts to pry them apart again.

And he was very curious about what J.J. had meant by saying she was going to treat both Hotchners 'like babies.' It was something he'd discussed with Clooney at length, but he was certain the reality would be unlike any of his imagined scenarios of the Unit Chief in a crib,…wearing a flannel onesie,…curled up with a teddy bear and a baby bottle.

_I just want to take a quick look to see what's going on. It'll only take a second._

xxxxxxxx

Meanwhile, J.J. was luxuriating in the aftermath of a rare, uninterrupted day and night spent with her own family. But at the edges of her contentment, as she watched the overcast day dawn over Quantico, she was curious to see how her idea of baby monitors had worked for the Hotchners. And the parent in her wanted to see with her own eyes that Jack was being kept in a mother-approved fashion.

_Hotch doesn't eat and curls up into a little ball when he doesn't feel good…but Jack's another matter. Can't let him follow Daddy's example… learn to react by going to ground like a wounded animal, hiding and hoping he'll get better on his own, without help from anyone._

She sighed and sipped her coffee. The message from Rossi the night before had been hopeful, but guarded. She would feel much better if she could be sure Dave wasn't working himself into a sickbed of his own in his determination to shoulder the burden of looking after his best friend and his surrogate grandchild.

_I just need to see; to take a quick look. It'll only take a second._

xxxxxxxx

Reid was battling with his professional curiosity. He wanted to see for himself how his boss' rash was progressing. He'd made his own mental timetable that meshed the symptoms for both flu and measles. In true scientific fashion, he needed to gather some empirical data to check on how accurate his predictions were. But underneath the clinical desire for proof, he also wanted reassurance of Hotch's indestructability.

Reid would take tremendous comfort in being in the man's presence just long enough to know the brave heart and compassionate spirit were still there, still indomitable, even if they were a little subdued at the moment. It was his secret hope to find Hotch asleep and, unobserved, peek under the blankets…behavior he knew would be met with disapproval and a wolf-eyed glare, should he be caught.

But curiosity was a powerful, driving force.

_It'll just take a second. And it'll be worth the risk._

xxxxxxxxx

Early morning found Prentiss putting together a goody bag; a grownup version of the arts-and-crafts one that had delighted Jack the day before. She'd spent her evening browsing for things to keep Hotch occupied once he was better, but still confined to a bed; and for a treat or two to give him something to look forward to, to spur on his complete recovery. The opportunity to demonstrate to her tight-lipped boss that he wasn't as inscrutably unreadable as he thought, was a challenge that made her smile.

Prentiss loved pushing the boundaries. This seemed like a marvelous chance for some affectionate ribbing. _And speaking of ribs…_ She grinned as she added a gift certificate to the bag: dinner for two at Shandy's Rib House, the finest, greasiest place for barbecue in Quantico. _Subtext: We know your weak spot, Hotch. And we know you don't eat enough. And we know you'd feel better and certain parts of you would be better protected if they had a little more padding. Ribs, Boss-man…Ribs for your ribs…_

When her phone announced Garcia was trying to reach her, Prentiss' grin grew wider.

"Hey, Penelope…You're _never_ up this early, so I'm guessing you never got to sleep. Am I right?"

"Ohhhhh…but it was _so_ worth it, my vision. Or _will_ be once I get to Rossi's." No weariness tinged Garcia's words. It was the voice of a woman who'd spent the night doing something she loved.

Prentiss remained silent as a frisson of alarm shivered up her spine. The carloads of food they'd just delivered to Rossi were but a day old. Could Garcia have produced…_more_?!

"Please tell me you didn't spend the whole night cooking…again? _Please_?"

The silence that followed was broken only by the very voluble sound of Prentiss swallowing in fascinated disbelief…almost dread.

"Gar-ci-aaaa? There's no more room at Rossi's. The fridge is full. The freezer is full…"

The response that came was in the voice of a terribly misunderstood Chef Extraordinaire. "It _isn't_ for Rossi. And it _doesn't_ require refrigeration," sniffed Penelope.

"I'm intrigued." Prentiss knew her friend. You could bet that Garcia's pride in whatever she'd concocted would eventually make her want to share, resulting in her outing herself. And although the sheer volume might be alarming, the generous impulse that was behind it was…beautiful. It was that splendid loveliness in her soul that made Garcia's excesses forgivable, adorable,…delightful.

"Well…" Garcia hadn't yet decided to come clean about the bags and boxes of doggie treats wrapped in appropriate boy-dog blue to preserve Mudge's male dignity. "…I'm headed over there and I just wondered if you wanted to come, too. Or meet me there…whatever…"

Prentiss smiled. The pretense of indifference was something Garcia, with her passionate nature, could never pull off. But Emily couldn't resist pushing her buttons just one more time.

"Sooooo….are you asking me for my company, or do you need my spacious backseat to transport…stuff…?"

A gusty sigh preceded Garcia's response. "I was going to pick you up on the way. _That's_ how much I _don't_ need additional car-space." And then Penelope pushed back just a little bit. "…as long as you're willing to hold…stuff…in your lap, anyway."

A few beats of silence fell into the exchange.

The laughter, when it came, was on both ends.

"I think my lap'll be full. I got some things to cheer Hotch up, assuming he's in the mood to _be_ cheered."

"I made Mudgie a bunch of treats. 'S'not fair that everyone else gets stuff and he doesn't."

"Awwwww…he'll love you for that. Rossi, too. See you in a bit?"

"I'm leaving now. As soon as I pack the car."

Prentiss sighed and closed the connection. She'd heard the crinkle of something that sounded suspiciously like wrapping paper. Only Penelope would giftwrap homemade doggie treats. _Probably found appropriately themed paper to do it in, too. And ribbons. Lots of ribbons._

She glanced at her watch and gathered up her own offerings for the Healthy Hotch Cause.

_It's a little early, but we'll just drop the stuff off. Rossi won't mind._

_It'll only take a second._


	21. High-Tech Teddy

Rossi was on his third cup of coffee.

That, plus a quick shower had helped revive him. But he still knew he needed to make other arrangements for the care-and-feeding of the Hotchners, or risk joining them in the land of the sick. He sighed.

_I'm just not as young as I used to be. I keep hoping to impress on Aaron that he's not alone, and the first thing I do is demonstrate to him that 'alone' is my first port of call, too._

But then he made himself feel better by reviewing the high points of the still-young day. He'd managed to get Hotch to drink a glass of fruit juice and do some deep breathing. He'd helped him clean up, and left him with a large cup of chicken soup, crackers, and his monitor tuned to Jack, who was leaps and bounds ahead of Daddy. Jack was enjoying eggs, bacon, and toast. Rossi's eye fell on the untouched bowl of kibble in its customary place on the kitchen floor. He was fairly sure it was a sign that bacon and toast were on Mudgie's hopeful, morning menu, too.

He shook his head. Child and dog were almost inseparable. And as ingenious as J.J.'s setup with the monitors was, Rossi had a feeling that Mudge's presence was doing more to keep Jack occupied and in his own room than any technological advancement in the world of baby care.

Having accomplished as much as he had made the day feel older than it was. So it didn't seem unduly strange when the doorbell chimed at 8 a.m. on a Sunday.

xxxxxx

"Hey, man. This too early?"

Morgan leaned against the doorjamb, hands tucked in the rear pockets of his jeans. It was a studied stance; one intended to look as though he who executed it had no agenda in mind. This was nothing more than a casual coincidence that he should find himself in Rossi's neck of the woods. No biggie.

Rossi's slow smile said he knew better. " 'S'not too early, Derek. And if you want to check on Hotch, go right ahead."

Morgan took the stairs, two at a time.

When he reached Hotch's door, he came to a full stop and listened. His head snapped up, turning in the direction of a five-year-old boy's giggled instructions to 'eat slower.' The small, impatient 'woof' that followed told Morgan that Jack was still in his own room. Not only had he kept to the enforced separation from his father, but it sounded as though he was recovered enough to enjoy a meal. Mudgie sounded in fine shape, too.

_So far, so good._

Morgan carefully pushed the door to Hotch's room open and peeked through the crack, letting his eyes adjust to the dim interior, secretly wondering if the crib and onesie of his imagination would be in evidence. But all he could see was the elongated lump of his boss' body under the blanket, his face lit by the faint, eerie glow of a portable monitor. A plate with some crackers along with a large cup sat on top of the nightstand, steam still rising from the cup's contents.

Morgan crept closer. It looked as though Hotch's eyes were closed. His breathing sounded harsh, labored.

_Must be asleep._

Curious about the monitor that was mere inches from Hotch's nose, Morgan moved to the bedside, lowering his own head, almost cheek to cheek with the Unit Chief, trying to see what was on the small screen.

xxxxxxx

Rossi hadn't made it back to the kitchen when his phone clamored for attention.

"Reid? Everything okay?"

"Uh…yeah. I was just wondering if I could come by and see how Hotch's doing?" The voice was tentative, but eager.

Rossi shrugged. "Sure. Morgan's with him right now…"

"Great! I'm on my way."

Rossi sighed and continued toward his destination. If he knew his teammates, he'd be having company for the next few hours. A fresh pot of coffee and a look through Garcia's diagram would allow him to play host with minimal effort. His eye fell on the mangled remains of Tupperware.

He would replace them, of course, but it pained him to have to admit that his dog wasn't the gentleman's companion he pretended.

_Your true nature is about to be outed, Mudge. Vandal…sneak…thief…gangster of the canine world…doggie unsub…._ He heard an excited 'woof!' from upstairs. _And just about the best medicine for a little boy that God ever created._

His phone chimed.

"J.J.? Everything okay?"

Rossi smiled. This kind of 'alone' wasn't bad…not bad at all.

xxxxxxxx

Morgan's highly trained awareness told him something had changed. The rhythm of the breathing…a tiny shift in position…something.

He pulled back far enough to see it: the glint of a dark eye, watching him from its corner. No matter how agile his movements, pushing up from leaning over his boss, almost completely covering him…Morgan felt awkward. And absurd.

"Hey, Hotch. It's just me."

"Why." The voice was scratchy and hoarse, but the single word wasn't a question. It was a command. _Explain yourself, agent._

"I…uh…I wanted to see what's on that screen."

Hotch's long fingers tightened in an almost imperceptible display of ownership. Morgan's inner profiler saw a weakened leader taking a last, forlorn opportunity to demonstrate control, as small and pathetic as it was. It tugged at his heart, although he'd never admit it. He'd seen Hotch like this before. Drained, struggling. The lion's heart refusing to give in. An almost instinctive attempt to deny the need for rest, for help.

The best thing he could do was show respect; let the injured animal think it was still strong and dangerous enough to merit caution when approached. Morgan had every intention of just backing off and giving his friend some space.

Until the cough came.

It started small, but quickly grew into something deep and tearing, forcing Hotch to turn on his side, doubling over, his arms crossed against his midriff in a vain attempt to protect his aching ribs.

"Damn it!" Morgan abandoned the act of lesser alpha. With what Hotch would consider an embarrassing lack of effort, he turned the Unit Chief on his back. He pushed him flat, pulling his arms away, granting full frontal, unimpeded access. Morgan knew exactly where the worst of Hotch's damage lay. He'd helped him recover from his Foyet-inflicted injuries. Ever since, it had been an almost subconscious reflex to keep an eye on the Boss-man's left side when they were in the field.

Now, he placed one hand over the ribs, preventing the alarming, leaping and contracting motions that the cough was forcing on them. With the other, he pressed against Hotch's diaphragm, massaging with just enough force to break up its convulsive movement.

"C'mon, man. Ease up…ease up…c'mon…please…ease up…" Morgan spoke in soft, soothing words, underlining the work of his large, strong hands on the body too weak to argue.

It took a while. And even when the spasms were no longer so violent, he maintained protective pressure, wanting to be sure that the storm had passed, that the muscles could truly relax. When it was over, Hotch lay panting, the look of combined gratitude and misery in his tired glance making Morgan linger, hoping the warmth of his hold would continue to comfort this poor, miserable man. And that his touch _would_ be more comfort than the challenge of a stronger male to a frailer.

He encouraged a few sips of the now tepid soup, knowing the act of swallowing could also soothe overused muscles exhausted from coughing.

He sat by Hotch's side, resting a hand on his stomach. His grin was wry. "So…like I was saying…what's on that monitor anyway?"

His leader tried to answer with a grin of his own, but was too worn to succeed. He pulled the small screen to his chest and tilted it toward Morgan. Leaning closer, Derek saw Jack…and Mudgie…and a feminine hand clearing away dishes licked clean. For a moment he frowned, wondering who it was. But when the little monitor picked up the singing…he knew.

The voice was sweet and sang in a minor key that was almost hypnotic.

"…blacks and bays…dapples and grays…all the pretty, little horses…"

There was something enticing about it that made you want to hum along.

"…bees and butterflies…flitting 'round his eyes…"

The song continued. Morgan let himself get carried away in its gentle cadence, waiting until it was over before speaking the obvious.

"J.J.'s here." He looked down at Hotch and stopped short. The body under his hand was breathing deeply, rhythmically, if coarsely. The eyes were closed. Lips slightly parted.

Morgan smiled.

He'd been toying with the idea of his boss in a crib surrounded by the trappings of infanthood. It had been a ridiculous image.

_Or maybe J.J. knows better than any of us_.

He stood up and with tender care, tucked the monitor against Hotch's chest, placing his hand over it to keep it close.

_I guess teddy bears can come in all different shapes and sizes…Just depends on what you need._


	22. Crime and Punishment

Morgan lingered over Hotch.

He knew he was being overprotective, but the man was weaker than he'd thought. _And stubborn as hell. _Even lying still, barely able to breathe, he'd kept up the I'm-your-boss veneer. And he'd done it out of the corner of one, teary, bleary eye.

_Gotta admit; dude's got power._

He stood, finally deciding that the coughing fit wouldn't make an ugly reappearance. He was halfway to the door when Reid's head poked through the entrance, looking furtive. He craned his neck, peering past Morgan at the still figure in the bed.

"He awake?"

"Shhhhhh…" Despite Reid's whisper, Morgan raised a hand, ushering him back out the way he'd come. But the young doctor was not to be denied. He'd been hoping to find Hotch asleep. He resisted being pushed toward the hall.

"No! Morgan! You don't understand. This is perfect."

"Out."

"No! I need him asleep!" Reid was struggling to keep his voice down, but natural enthusiasm made it difficult. Once in the hall, Morgan pulled Hotch's door shut before turning inquisitive eyes on his colleague.

"He's in worse shape than we thought, Pretty Boy. You're not gonna disturb him. I don't get the feeling he's had too much of the healing kind of sleep…ya know?"

"But…" Reid tried to sidestep Morgan. It was a useless effort. The larger agent simply scooped him around with one arm and herded him down the stairs.

"No 'but's, Kid. Leave him alone. We need to find out what Rossi's doing about medical care." Morgan sighed. "From what I just saw, guy could use some."

Reid cast a longing look toward the Unit Chief's door, but had to bow to the strong arm of Morgan…a force proving more powerful than curiosity and the need for empirical proofs.

For the moment.

xxxxxxx

J.J. had sung Jack to sleep after assuring herself that he hadn't donated _all_ his breakfast to the Mudgie Mooch Fund.

She checked the monitor setup, seeing Hotch lying quiet with a hand she recognized as Morgan's resting on his midriff. Smiling at her co-worker's dependability when it came to doing his utmost to keep their leader safe, she collected the used dishes and ushered Mudge out of the room. She was in the kitchen with Rossi when the doorbell announced Reid's arrival. When Rossi came back from answering it alone and joined her in putting out an array of Garcia-produced canapés, they exchanged smiles.

"He went right up to check on Hotch?"

Rossi nodded. "Yeah. He was mumbling something about 'symptom progression' and 'recombinant adverse effect.' Tell ya the truth, I didn't really listen."

J.J. chuckled. "Been there. Anyway…that just sounds like a fancy way of saying he's worried about our poor, fallen sickie."

Rossi raised one brow. "As opposed to why _you're_ here?"

"Oooooo….b-u-s-t-e-d….But I only checked on him via the monitor. Morgan was with him. I think he was asleep, so I'll drop in person-to-person later."

The sound of hushed, but fervent, male voices descending the staircase coincided with Rossi's phone.

He sighed as he saw the caller ID. "I've never _been_ so popular. On a Sunday. Early. Early on a Sunday. The traditional day of rest…"

"Awwww…poor Rossi." J.J. stepped back to survey the appetizing repast now occupying the substantial space provided by the kitchen island. "But she'll be happy to see everyone enjoying her food." She saw the slightly smug look on her host's face, and had a moment of doubt. "That's Garcia, right? Or Emily?"

Rossi sniffed, affectionately superior. "Shows how much _you_ know, smarty-pants." He put the phone to his ear. "Morning, Marty. If you're asking after our boys, you might like to come by. Seems I'm putting on a rather elaborate, impromptu brunch."

J.J. didn't catch the words, but the tone coming from the other end sounded pleased at the prospect of Sunday Buffet At The Manse. Rossi closed the call as Morgan and Reid entered, the young doctor still arguing some point apparently very important to him. He was overridden by Morgan's more stentorian voice.

"Rossi, we gotta get a doctor in here." He shot a judgmental glance at Reid. "A _real_ doctor. Boss-man's not so good."

Concern flashed across Rossi's face. He reminded himself that he'd been satisfied with Hotch's progress a mere hour ago. And this evaluation was coming from someone who tended to overreact when his leader's health and welfare were at stake.

"Why? What happened?"

Morgan's look said that he couldn't believe he had to explain something so obvious. "He's _sick_…that's what happened. He's out now because he coughed himself into exhaustion." Morgan gave an abrupt nod, confirming his own prognosis and looking as though he were considering packing the Unit Chief off the premises in his own arms. "We need to get a doctor in here. Or get Hotch to a hospital."

"I'll check on him!" Reid volunteered a little too eagerly. He exited the kitchen, eluding Morgan's grasp, taking advantage of the fact that the agent was distracted, thinking he had to convince Rossi of Hotch's need for medical intervention.

Rossi shrugged. "A doctor's on his way, Derek. He's an old friend. If he says Hotch needs hospitalization, he'll have it. But…" He lowered his chin, looking at the overprotective agent from under his brows. "…Hotch has made it perfectly clear that he'd rather _not_ go that route, if at all avoidable."

Morgan's hands fisted in frustration at his sides. "He's not in any shape to make that call." He dropped his voice, trying for a more persuasive tone. "I just held the man down 'cause his bones were jumping all over the place from how bad it was. Guy almost coughed up a lung. Seriously, Rossi."

The older agent kept his voice low, exuding reason. "That's why it's _not_ his call. We'll do our best to honor Hotch's wishes, but if the doctor thinks it's necessary, we _will_ take him in." He glanced at J.J., debating saying something else in her presence. Of the entire team, Hotch had only taken Rossi and Morgan into his confidence concerning his abusive childhood. The others had made shrewd guesses, but it was one of those things no one mentioned.

Out of respect.

Out of horror for the reality of it all.

Out of consideration and kindness for their leader's feelings.

The doorbell chimed. With diplomatic finesse, J.J. excused herself to answer it, giving the embattled men some privacy. When she was out of earshot, Rossi still kept his voice down.

"Derek, you know how he hates hospitals. And doctors. And being separated from Jack when he thinks the boy needs him." Rossi's eyes were sad. "He's already spent too much of his life in cold, unfriendly places having his body repaired. Let's see if we can spare him that this time around. Okay?"

Morgan's heart clenched, recalling the times he'd seen Hotch broken and bruised. None of them had been as bad as the times he'd seen his friend's emotional injuries. Those were the ones that still hurt, still haunted. Might never go away. And _certainly_ wouldn't depart, if they were kept fresh with visceral reminders in the form of repeated hospital stays. Still…

"A doctor's on his way? Now?"

Rossi nodded. "One of the best. He'll look in every day until Hotch and Jack are recovered. And he's already said that he won't take risks with anyone's health if he decides admission to a hospital is necessary."

Morgan chewed on his lip, brow furrowed, weighing a stranger's words against his boss' stubborn resistance. "I'd like to meet this guy, if that's okay."

"Of course. Like I said: he's on his way." _Good. At least he's holding off delivering any ultimatums until all the evidence is in._

When Rossi heard J.J.'s voice, lifted, giving warning that she was returning so she wouldn't intrude on any confidential conversation, he half expected it to be Marty. He braced himself for introductions, knowing his old war buddy would be under Morgan's intense scrutiny. But when J.J. pushed through the kitchen door, she was followed by a smiling Prentiss and a blissfully bubbly Garcia, laden with _more_ bags and boxes of aromatic goodies.

At least, Garcia _was_ bubbly and effusive. Until she deposited her burdens on the counter. Until her gaze fell on the mangled remains of her Tupperware lids.

"Oh…" She breathed the word, eyes large with the effort of trying to understand the karmic link between her generosity and the resultant destruction of her property.

Mudgie had been very quiet, sidling his way closer and closer to the island groaning under its delectable spread of offerings. But his head swiveled when Garcia entered, tracking whatever new treats had entered his domain, thereby becoming fair game. Rossi bowed his head in shame for his canine companion, and stepped forward.

"Penelope, I'm sorry. I'll replace them, if you'll just tell me where to go." Garcia's eyes remained riveted on the torn, punctured lumps of plastic. "And I promise it won't happen again. I'm keeping everything out of Mudge's reach."

"Mudge…" She pulled her gaze away from the wreckage, fastening instead on the quivering whiskers and limpid eyes looking up at her, brimming with hope and adoration; eyes that, on occasion, bore an uncanny resemblance to her own. As the others watched, unsure how this little drama would play out, Garcia knelt before Rossi's dog.

"Oh, Mudgie. Oh…I'm so sorry." She reached up to the counter and retrieved one of the giftwrapped bundles, extending it to the now salivating animal. "These are for you." She shot an apologetic glance at Rossi. "And all the rest is for him, too." She returned to addressing Mudgie directly. "And I promise, next time I come, I'll bring you chew toys. Poor Mudgie. All forgotten and neglected…"

Garcia threw her arms around the dog's neck. The hug did little to impede the progress he was making tearing into the package of homemade bacon biscuits.

Rossi could only stare.

_Larceny. Destruction of private property. Burglary. Breaking and entering. What he did was at __**least**__ a misdemeanor…possibly a felony…_

Apparently, unsubs of the animal kingdom were subject to a whole, different code of punishment for their crimes.


	23. Parameters Redefined

Marty Palmer hadn't been expecting such a full house when Rossi extended his invitation to a spur-of-the-moment brunch.

But then, neither had Rossi been expecting to open his door to find the doctor with an overnight bag slung over one shoulder, and a big, black, somewhat elderly, Labrador Retriever in tow. After introductions…a process that, eased by Garcia's bacon biscuits, went particularly well for Mudgie and the newly-arrived Fudge…some explanations seemed to be in order.

"I thought I'd take you up on your offer to stay…" Marty raised an inquiring eyebrow. "_If_ it's still open, that is. And _if_ you don't mind Fudge's company." The lady in question looked up from her I'll-sniff-you-if-you'll-sniff-me session with Mudgie, giving her tail one appreciative _whump!_ on the tiled floor.

Rossi's smile expressed genuine pleasure for the company of his old war buddy. But he was also curious about what had changed the doctor's mind.

"Of course the offer's open, Marty. Always. And you can bring any old thing you want with you." The last was delivered with an affectionate ruffle of floppy, black ears, resulting in a cadence of _whumps!_ that was impressive for both rhythm and enthusiasm. "Did something happen? Is everything okay?"

The doctor nodded, glancing from face to face. A lifetime of honoring patient-doctor confidences made him reluctant to talk about Aaron in front of strangers. Rossi read his hesitation and understood.

"They all know he's sick…double whammy: flu and measles." His smile had faded upon recounting Hotch's ailments, but now it reappeared. "And they're all here because they care about him, despite the other excuses they might set forth. If I subject them to interrogation, you'd find they all want whatever's best for the Hotchners." Rossi shrugged. "Aaron and Jack are family. We love them."

Among the general nodding, the doctor noticed that one agent took time to study his own feet.

Morgan wasn't comfortable saying he 'loved' any of his male teammates to a stranger. It was something that could lend itself to misinterpretation, and shift away from the macho alpha persona he nurtured. Ever since his own traumatic childhood, he'd been very careful about such things. He knew it was unnecessary baggage, but…_It's __**my**__ baggage, and I'll carry it on my own for as long as I want._

Seeing this motley group's tacit agreement…even Morgan's, Marty still looked thoughtful before proceeding. He had the distinct impression that the abusive history Dave had shared with him concerning Aaron's past should be treated with the utmost respect and discretion. His impression of Aaron as an intensely private man, made him decide that as long as he stuck to the symptoms and treatments of the diseases making inroads on his patient, he wouldn't be risking any inappropriate revelations.

"Well, I need to take another look at him before I'm sure, but…remember I said this was the eye of the storm?" Rossi nodded. "As bad as the fever you already saw him through was, the next'll be much worse. And I think it'll hit within twenty-four to thirty-six hours."

"How bad is 'worse,' Doc?" Morgan's entire physical aspect manifested conflict. His stance, his voice, his expression. He was in complete approval of having a doctor onsite, twenty-four seven. But the intimation that what he'd seen of Hotch's malady was only a forerunner of worse things to come, had started an inner dialogue that was about to start screaming that they get the man to a proper medical facility _NOW_!

Marty took a long, considering look at the agent in whom he sensed a great deal of distrust…_And loyalty…And love, though he probably won't admit it._

"That's a question with no precise answer, Mr. Morgan. That's why I want to be close by: in case some decisions of a medical nature need to be made." The agent looked as though he wanted something a little more concrete than that.

"I'm going up to drop my stuff in a spare room?" Marty glanced at Rossi. Rossi nodded reaffirmation of the invitation to stay. "And then I'll have a look at Jack and Aaron." Direct eye contact made it clear that the doctor's next words were for Morgan alone. "You're welcome to come with me. Long as you step out, if I ask you to."

Derek expelled a long breath he hadn't been aware he was holding. "I'd like that. Thanks, Doc."

Rossi watched Morgan take the older man's luggage from him as they started up the staircase. The act of simple courtesy reassuring him that the agent would at least listen to opposing arguments about hospitalizing Hotch. Especially if they came from a doctor.

"Take the second on the left," Rossi called after them. "We'll wait to eat 'til you guys come back down."

When he turned back to his guests, two pairs of canine eyes met his with clear disapproval. Waiting was not a popular concept. But Garcia eased the tension by digging through her shopping bags of treats, unearthing a second giftwrapped package; this time containing chicken biscuits.

Peace was restored. The threat of subversive, doggie unsub activity curtailed.

For the moment.

xxxxxxxxx

Upstairs in Hotch's room, Reid took more than extra care in approaching his leader's bedside quietly.

The Unit Chief was still holding the monitor against his chest, where Morgan had placed it. Any illumination it might have provided was muted against the sick man's t-shirt. Reid waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, running over his projected timeline for symptoms and recovery, subject to a number of variables, when a man Hotch's age contracted a virulent strain of stomach flu along with regular, run-of-the-mill measles.

_Except there's nothing 'run-of-the-mill' about it when it hits an adult_, Reid reminded himself.

When he judged his pupils to have reached maximum dilation, meaning he could see as well as could be expected, he surveyed his intended research subject, deciding how best to accomplish his ends while minimizing the risk of being caught. He didn't think a sick Hotch would be in a very forgiving mood if he opened his eyes to find his bedding being invaded by a curious cohort.

_All I really need to know is how far the rash has progressed. If it's halfway down his legs, I can assume the rest of my calculations are arguably accurate._

Pleased that he could verify his theoretical parameters without having to intrude too far on Hotch's privacy, Reid moved to the foot of the bed. He reached out and grasped the blanket hanging over the edge. By slow, gentle increments, he began to lift the fabric away from Hotch's feet.

When a voice stopped him.

Even in the murky light, Reid could see that Hotch's eyes were closed. His head barely moved. Side to side. Negating whatever was happening in the dim, subconscious world that claimed him.

"No. Please….Please, please… No."

The voice was small and sad and utterly hopeless. It arrowed its way past Reid's intellect, lodging directly in his heart. He knew almost instinctively that whatever was hurting Hotch now was from long ago.

_Something childhood-related…Like me._

The feeling of kinship for another boy damaged, limping an uncertain way out of a difficult past, hit Reid hard. Any desire he'd had to inspect his boss' body…dispersed. Reid lowered the blanket back into place.

Standing in the dark, he bit his lip and listened to his friend plead with some long-ago tormentor.

For the first time, Spencer Reid understood Morgan's overwhelming desire to protect.

He heard low voices coming up the stairs, one of which he recognized as Derek's. And it didn't matter about being caught in Hotch's room. Reid's mission had changed.

From Research to Rescue.

He sat on the side of the mattress and rubbed gentle fingers over Hotch's shoulder, unknowingly hitting on just the right words, whispered in the dark. Just loud enough to override Hotch's pleas.

"It's okay, Hotch. You're safe. Nothing can hurt you here. You're safe…safe…safe…"

xxxxxxxx

Deep inside a world of ghostly gray and grim, a sick, little boy trying to hide from Daddy heard.

_Safe…safe…safe…_

Hotch sighed and gave a light cough. Relaxing, he passed into a different dream.

When the bedroom door opened, admitting Morgan and an older man Reid had never seen before, the young agent drew himself up, raising his chin in defiance. He didn't know who this man was, or what he wanted. But Reid was certain of one thing: he wasn't leaving Hotch's side. Not yet.

Morgan met his eyes and nodded.

_He's ours. Ours to guard. Ours to keep. Ours to protect._

It was a rare moment of perfect understanding.


	24. Sorry Sight

Marty observed the young man sitting by Hotch's bedside, one hand resting on the sleeping man's shoulder.

He didn't look hostile. Rather, _determined_. Determined to keep watch over his fallen friend. And a little bit anxious that someone might try to evict him from the spot he'd claimed at Hotch's side. It was a sweet loyalty that Marty would never dream of challenging. At least, not in any callous, dismissive fashion.

He approached with respect and deference.

"Good morning."

Reid nodded his recognition of the greeting, eyes flicking between Marty and Morgan, wondering who would try to oust him first.

"I'm Dr. Martin Palmer. I'd like to take a look at my patient...with your permission." The statement was a diplomatic cross between request and command. The accompanying smile swayed it into friendly territory, rather than professional challenge.

"I'm Dr. Spencer Reid." The young man didn't move. He was taking this newcomer's measure; curious about his background and how he'd come to be associated with Hotch.

Marty's brows rose. " 'Doctor' is it? What's your specialty?"

"Oh, uh, no…he's not _that_ kind of doctor,..Doc." Morgan hastened to explain. Despite sympathizing with Reid's desire to stay close to Hotch, he was anxious to let the _real_ medical man take over. The rough sound of his leader's coughing and the alarming way the body had spasmed helplessly beneath his hands was still fresh in his mind.

"Ahhhh…a man of learning, of letters and intellect. Admirable." Marty sighed. "I always wished I'd been able, had the mental capacity, to embrace other branches of academia. But, medicine was my calling. I can't say I regret it…just sometimes I think the more one specializes, the more limited one's world becomes." Marty managed to make lack of a medical degree sound like an accomplishment. The innate respect in his response, and the slight inclination of his head, gave Reid enough reassurance to let him feel more confident in letting this stranger take his place beside Hotch.

Nonetheless, Reid stayed close. So did Morgan.

Marty smiled to himself at the silent devotion he sensed in Aaron's friends. He set his bag down and leaned over his patient, listening to the labored breathing, noting the pallor and faint sheen of perspiration.

_Not good. Might be headed toward that final fever sooner rather than later._

He reached into his bag for his stethoscope, and the blunt scissors he would use to cut away the tape supporting Hotch's ribs. The dressing needed changing daily. Otherwise the measles rash would become more irritated, trapped with sweat, a byproduct of Aaron's body's fight to kill off the viruses invading it.

He listened to the laboring chest in several places, wishing he could do so from the back without waking his patient, but deciding to wait. Rest was more important.

When it was time to cut open the dressing, Marty looked at both agents standing by. He already knew how Aaron didn't like having his scars made visible. He didn't know the team dynamics well enough to be comfortable making the decision to allow an audience. Scissors poised to make the first cut, he spoke over his shoulder.

"Would you boys mind waiting outside while I check under this bandage?"

Morgan and Reid glanced at each other, shifting position as they considered the request. Morgan spoke first.

"We know what's under there, Doc. You might say we have hands-on experience with it."

Reid took up the tale. "We were there when it happened…and there afterwards when he needed help."

Marty was undecided. His words were quiet. "Do you know he _still_ needs help?"

"Yes."

It was spoken in unison, and with such sad acceptance, the doctor felt baring Aaron's old wounds before these two wouldn't be breaking any confidences. He nodded and began to cut through the tape with careful, small snips, letting the bottom blade rest on the skin, making slow progress while the cold steel pressed against Aaron as it worked its way through the material.

xxxxxx

Hotch looked up and saw the mirror. Again.

And again the gray, swirling columns of vapor that hid things…that wouldn't let him find a way out…that kept him captive…and available, vulnerable, to whatever came for him. He looked into his own eyes, reading the silent, fearful plea. _Oh, please. Not again. Not…them. Please?_

When the hand reached around from behind, the fingers dropping a light touch onto the central, most vivid scar, he swallowed and closed his eyes, knowing what came next.

"Aaron?"

His eyes flew open. _Haley?_

"Aaron…" The hand was soft, small, gentle. It traced the path of his pain and he felt his wounds opening, flowing with guilt the color of Haley's blood.

"Aaron, you were too late." The hand flattened against his stomach, pressing as though to accentuate the ghostly words. "Why didn't you come sooner?"

He swallowed and let his lids drift shut again. The better to concentrate on the blame that he knew…that he'd _always_ known…was his.

_Sorry…sorry…sorry…_

On some level he realized it was the same word he'd said to his father; the same word he'd been saying all his life.

"Didn't you want Jack to have a mother?" The hand's feather touch kept him present; wouldn't let him go; strangely, they made the words feel heavier, like stones filling his soul so it would never soar free again.

_Sorry…sorry…sorry…_

"Did you want him to yourself so much that you let me die, Aaron?"

_NO!_ _GOD, NO! _His entire being shrieked denial.

"Are you sure, Aaron?" The hand was creeping upward toward his heart. "Are you sure?"

_NO! …No, I'll never be sure…I tried…I tried…But…what…if…? Oh, God! …sorry…sorry…sorry…_

The small, soft hand reached his heart. He felt lips press against his neck. The scars were opening, something cold pressing and working its way up the front of him from waist to chest. He felt his guilt running from the now gaping scars for everyone to see. Tears running from his eyes. But what flowed wasn't blood, wasn't salty liquid. It was something foul and clinging. Even as it ran out, he knew it wasn't leaving him. It was just becoming more visible. Cradling him, encasing him. Weaving Haley's phantom words and his own doubts into a shroud.

_NO! I __**loved**__ you! NO!_

xxxxxxx

"NO!"

Marty jerked back from removing the dressing wrapped around Hotch's ribs, grateful for the dulled blade he was using. Otherwise, when Aaron had screamed and his stomach muscles had contracted, he would have been cut.

_In a place that he __**really**__ doesn't need any more trauma._

Morgan sprang forward, Reid right behind him.

"HOTCH! Calm down, man!" Derek pressed him back, knowing whatever Hotch's eyes were fastened on was visible to him alone. "C'mon…HOTCH!"

The sheer force of someone holding him still…the power of muscle against muscle…broke through, clearing away the cobweb-gray miasma born of the worst part of him. The _most_ part of him, Hotch believed.

Marty sat back and watched the drama play out without his interference. It would tell him more about Aaron and his friends than hours of conversation.

"Hotch!…Hotch…Hotch…" The name transformed from forceful command to gentle bid for attention. Morgan's touch went from powerful restraint to soothing caress. Reid had moved in, holding Aaron's face still with long fingers laid against each side of the angular cheeks, drawing the panic-stricken eyes to his own; echoing Morgan... "Hotch…Hotch…Hotch…"

When the heaving, panting breath calmed as much as it could, and the bruised horror in the eyes began to recede, the doctor placed a hand over the half-opened dressing, adding his touch to the others.

Hotch looked from face to face, letting reality replace the people who waited, just below the surface of his dreams. He coughed, and blinked, and asked the question uppermost in his tired, troubled mind.

"Jack… 'S he going through this?...'S this wha' 's like for him?"

Marty didn't have to know the details. It didn't affect knowing what his patient needed to hear. "No, no…not at all. This is _much_ harder for you than for Jack."

Through a sniffle and swaying regard, Hotch still recognized truth in the doctor's tone. "Good. Good. Don' wan' him feel bad..."

And then Aaron laid back and closed his eyes; ashamed of what the others might see in them.

_What if Haley's right? Oh, Jack…I'm so sorry…sorry…sorry…_

'Sorry' was becoming the melody, the soundtrack of his life. And he had no idea how to turn down the volume.


	25. A Touch of Light

Down in the kitchen, Rossi and Mudge were trying their best to keep four females entertained.

Mudge was doing alright with his special guest. After a surfeit of biscuits in assorted flavors, both dogs were stretched, belly-up, in a patch of sunshine; a portrait of overfed, canine companionship.

Rossi, however, was preoccupied, wondering what was going on upstairs. Especially after he thought he heard Morgan's powerful voice shout Hotch's name. When he'd glanced once too often toward the kitchen door, J.J. spoke up.

"You know, Rossi, we don't have to do this…" Her gesture took in the elaborate Garcia-fest of food laid out on the kitchen island. "We just came by to make sure you're okay looking after a couple of Hotchners."

Prentiss grinned. "Y-e-a-h…one's a handful, but _two_?" Her expression lost its cynical edge, turning softer. "You know when we're working we want you to keep in touch...let us know if we can help. And how they're doing."

"Even if _they're_ all away, _I_ can always help. Or find those who can." Garcia added her assurance. "While Rocket and Pocket-Rocket are here, consider me your personal, domestic-help fairy, okay? Rossi?"

Distracted again, he seemed to be straining to hear anything untoward coming from his second floor. The gentleman in him was loathe to desert his guests. The friend in him longed to be at Aaron's side. The ladies exchanged looks.

"Go on up, Rossi. We're fine here on our own." The gentle tone of J.J.'s voice prodded at him to follow his heart. But there was another reason Rossi didn't want to intrude on whatever was happening upstairs.

"No…no, that's okay." He pulled himself back to giving his guests his full attention. "I really appreciate all the concern and offers of help; you know that. But, I think we'll be in good hands with Marty staying close." His eyes fell on the comatose Lab exposing its distended belly to the sun. "And with Fudge, too, of course."

"He seems nice." Prentiss didn't know the background, the past events that had brought the doctor and the agent together, but she sensed it was a long, winding trail. One that had led to that rarest of gifts; a lifelong friend.

Rossi nodded and smiled. "He is." Again, he glanced toward the door. "I just want him to have a chance to see what he can of all of you, Hotch's team, with his own eyes…not through the filter my presence might impose." His voice trailed away. "We'll be fine."

J.J. had been sitting on a barstool, using the counter as a backrest. Now, she pushed off from her seat, heading toward the kitchen door. "Well, _my_ presence won't filter anything." She gave Rossi a small, soft smile, filled with understanding. "I'll just go check on…Jack." The unspoken subtext didn't need interpretation. She was going to make sure the male half of Hotch's team were behaving themselves.

Rossi didn't think it was really necessary, but his answering grin beamed relieved gratitude nonetheless.

xxxxxxxx

Once Hotch had relaxed, once Morgan and Reid were sure he was seeing the reality of his surroundings, and not some phantasm dragged from the depths of his fevered, weary mind, they stepped back, giving the doctor full access to their friend's body.

Hotch kept his eyes shut, wishing he were invisible…gone. He knew Morgan and Reid were watching with hawk's eyes. Worse…with profiler's eyes. He wasn't sure; maybe it was a remnant of the dream, like a bad taste or a disembodied voice, but he felt ashamed, although he wasn't sure why. Whatever it was, he was…_sorry…sorry…sorry_.

Morgan saw the Adam's apple bob, the chest still heaving. _Something hurt him. Hit him hard. More than just a bad dream. Deeper than that._ He saw Hotch begin to tremble.

"Doc, he's shaking."

With infinite patience, Marty finished cutting through the dressing, answering his patient's colleague in a low voice intended to lull everyone present, to drain any remaining tension away. "He's sick, Mr. Morgan. In my day, we'd say he's suffering 'the ague.' It's a febrile condition involving alternating periods of chills, fever and sweating. But we'd say 'ague' when we didn't know the disease causing the symptoms. When all we could name _was_ symptoms, we'd treat them and hope for the best." He sighed. "There was always lots of 'ague.'"

This wasn't doing much to bolster Morgan's confidence in entrusting Hotch's health to this stranger. But Reid was hearing something different in the words, something he had to pursue.

"Dr. Palmer, where did you practice that you didn't have adequate diagnostic procedures available?"

Marty smiled as he pulled Hotch's dressing away, peeling it in slow, gentle increments. He'd known the younger one would be intrigued and would want to delve deeper.

"Where _haven't_ I practiced would be easier to answer, Dr. Reid." He bundled the used bandages into a ball, dropping them into a nearby wastebasket.

"I've done my best to lessen as much suffering as I could on nearly every continent." He laid a hand on Hotch's bare midriff, examining the weakened bones with a combination of prodding and mild massage.

"I've learned to improvise, to extract more use out of what I have than could possibly be expected." He looked over his shoulder at the two men tracking his every move. "And I've learned that there is much more to healing than state-of-the-art equipment can provide." He turned his attention back to his patient, taking a small bottle from his bag and dabbing some of its contents onto the rash that had been trapped beneath the dressing.

"I've learned one thing never changes, no matter where you are, no matter what facilities are available." Marty returned the bottle to his bag and leaned closer to Hotch, feeling along his neck and jawline, noting how swollen the lymph nodes were.

"Human emotion." His voice was still low, almost distracted, hypnotic, as he continued his examination. "There will always be fear, distrust, anger. But most of all…up to the very last, and maybe beyond…there is hope. And love." He smiled to himself. "Mustn't forget love. Love of friends, relatives…of life itself. I have seen some amazing things happen in the name and presence of love." Marty sat back and tilted his head, observing Hotch with a solemn expression. His words, however, were meant for the other two.

"One or both of you think your friend should be in a hospital before the disease peaks." All three men noticed the tightening of Hotch's lips, the shudder that was noticeable above and beyond the trembling Marty attributed to 'ague.'

Morgan was about to press home his point that Rossi's place wasn't equipped to handle an unexpected emergency, but before he could speak, he heard the doctor address Hotch directly, placing hands on the sick man's shoulders, leaning close as though willing the sound of his voice to override his patient's dread.

"It's alright, Aaron. Don't worry, son. I'm here. You're safe. You're safe."

Hotch's eyes slitted open at the word 'safe.' He shivered with memories of sterile rooms, harsh lighting, and cold hands probing his wounds. "Don' wanna go…"

"I know. I know. I'm not leaving, son. I'll stay here with you. You're safe." Marty let one forearm rest against Hotch's chest. After a moment, Hotch brought one hand and then the other up, gripping, pulling the doctor's arm closer. Almost hugging it to himself. It was at once an expression of gratitude, and an entreaty.

The three men recognized the unspoken language embodied in the gesture: Hotch wanted a promise that he wouldn't be shunted off to some impersonal place, far from anything resembling comfort…and far too reminiscent of the places of his past. And far, far, far too far from his son.

Morgan's shoulders slumped in defeat. When it came down to it, he didn't think he'd be able to handle the injured, betrayed look in Boss-man's eyes, if he forced him into a hospital. He sought one last bit of reassurance from the doctor.

"You'll be here? All the time? And you'll get him more help if he needs it? You won't just…I dunno…rely on 'love' or 'hope' or something?"

Marty nodded. "But don't discount what I've told you about those emotions." He brushed some hair from Hotch's brow. "As a matter of fact, it's been more than twenty-four hours since the flu fever ended."

Morgan had no idea what the significance of that little bit of medical data could be, but Reid's brows rose and the beginning of a smile touched his lips.

"Soooo…he's not contagious for flu anymore. And…Jack?"

The old doctor looked at the young one, a large grin finally shining forth. "Yes, he can have his son with him…" He turned back to Hotch whose whole demeanor already seemed brighter. "…for a while…that is. You both still need undisturbed rest. So you're not moving in together just yet." The light in his patient's eyes told Marty that even one minute, one hug, would be a cherished gift…something for which Hotch would sell his soul.

From the doorway, where she'd been watching, trying to remain quietly invisible, J.J. felt a small bubble of happiness rising up through her; setting her heart effervescing. With a grin that felt ridiculously wide, she went to see if Jack would like to come visit the Bat-Cave.

And the Dark Knight, who suddenly looked so much lighter.


	26. Raspberry Leopards

J.J. had to admit, she was so eager for the Hotchners to come together that she _might_ have been a little noisier than necessary when she entered Jack's room.

The boy turned over, rubbing eyes that promised to acquire his father's piercing stare in a decade or so. J.J.'s excitement, more communicable than any virus, transferred itself to him. The sleepy, little voice demanded an explanation.

"Wha'…?"

The adult voice tried to keep itself from bubbling over with premature joy…and almost succeeded.

"How're you feeling, Sweetie?"

There was a giggle in the woman's voice, struggling to break free. Jack could sense it. He did what his father would have done: raised his chin and subjected the person in question to a narrow, sidelong stare. _What are you __**really**__ trying to say?..._

"'M okay." After a few beats the five-year-old released J.J. from his regard, casting about the floor on both sides of the bed. "Where's Mudgie?"

Thinking of companionship, his hand went out to exhume the monitor, buried in the bedding. Daddy might be boring to watch in the Bat-Cave, but Jack still wanted him close. It was one reason he treasured Mudge's company: he could hug the dog and pretend the big, warm body was someone else…someone he wasn't supposed to touch or be near, although he didn't really understand why. But Daddy had impressed on him that, if something happened, if he wasn't around, he expected Jack to obey the members of his team. It scared the child a little, but he was learning by example to hide feelings that might disturb others.

That's what Daddy did.

And he wanted so very much to be just like Daddy.

Hotch didn't know about the nights Jack had awakened, hearing muffled sobs coming from his father's room. But every time he asked over breakfast if Daddy was alright, Hotch gave the smile that didn't touch his eyes, and said "Of course I am, Buddy. I'm great."

It was one of those mysteries Jack assumed would become clearer when he was older. In the meantime, he let Daddy cry, keeping the tiny wounds each of those tears inflicted on his own tender, child's heart…secret.

"Mudgie's downstairs. With company."

"Oh."

J.J. couldn't bear the resignation in the single word, or the disconsolate look on the child's face anymore. "Since Mudgie has a visitor, would you like to go on a visit, too? Jack?"

The small shoulders shrugged. "Guess so." The dearth of enthusiasm made it plain the boy was being polite, trying to be the gentleman his father said he should strive to be. Courtliness was another successful example that Hotch set his son.

"W-e-e-e-l-l-l, if you're up for it, if you're not busy…you know…no prior engagements…" J.J. lost the battle to keep happiness from spilling over, taking her words in a rush and tumble like cataracts, like river rapids running with delight. "…How'd you like to go see Daddy?"

Afterwards when she tried to describe Jack's expression, J.J. would consider words like 'stunned,' 'disbelieving,' or 'amazed.' But when she scooped him up and looked into his Hotchner eyes as they began the walk to his father's room, there was really only one word that applied.

Love.

And she knew in her heart that by allowing father and son to come together, Dr. Palmer had prescribed the most powerful medicine in his pharmacopeia.

xxxxxxx

After J.J. left to fetch Jack, Marty looked at the two agents hovering in the room.

"Gentlemen, I really do need a private word with my patient." He inclined his head toward the doorway. "If you don't mind." There was no mistaking his tone. This was not a request.

Reid and Morgan stepped out, even going a few paces toward the landing to avoid eavesdropping.

Once he was certain they were alone, the doctor turned his serious regard on Hotch. Sitting at the bedside, he leaned forward, catching the sick man's eyes with his own.

"I want to be sure you understand that this is only a _visit_ with your son, Aaron. And there is a condition attached."

Hotch was distracted by the prospect of Jack's arrival. He couldn't keep his eyes from drifting toward the doorway, waiting for that first sight of his boy.

"Aaron." Marty took the stubbled chin in his fingers and turned the head, forcing face to face confrontation. "This is important. You're already starting to build to the next bout of fever. I'm predicting it'll spike within the next twenty-four hours."

Hotch blinked, unsure what he was supposed to do about something he couldn't control.

"That means you need to drink, and try to eat as much as you comfortably can in the time you have left." The doctor delivered his ultimatum. "Jack can stay with you as long as you take in liquids. Go slow, but steady. When you can't drink or eat any more, I'll want you to rest. Alone." Hotch's eyes finally took on a sad look of comprehension.

"Jack still needs rest, too, but he's almost over this. You're not. And I will _not_ allow him to be with you, or even watch you through _that_ thing…" He nodded at the spiky-eared Bat-Cam. "…while the fever has you." Marty released Aaron's chin and sat back. "Do you understand?"

Hotch searched the doctor's eyes, reading everything he could with his profiler's skill. His voice was still scratchy and hoarse; the kind of sound that made those of a sympathetic bent want to wince, feeling their own throats go raw.

"Doc…Marty…are you telling me this might be the last time I see my son?"

"No. I'm telling you there's a rough time ahead. Something you wouldn't want your boy to witness." He saw Hotch swallow, doubt and even a touch of fear seeping into the dark eyes. Marty placed a palm along the side of his patient's face, trying to convey what cautious optimism he could, without feeling he was leading the man into a lie. "You won't be alone, Aaron. Dave will look after Jack, and I'll be with you every step of the way."

The doctor's smile was sad as he patted the cheek under his hand, running his thumb once along the lean cheekbone. He remembered his discussion with Rossi about Hotch's past.

"I'll keep you safe, Aaron. You'll come through this. I promise."

And with that, J.J. and Jack appeared in the doorway.

It was like a cascade of sunshine pouring into all the dark cracks of Hotch's soul.

Jack struggled out of J.J.'s arms, pouncing on his father before anyone could tell him to take care with the depleted body that would only, ever, always, look like that of a superhero to his worshipful, child's eyes.

Morgan and Reid had drifted back into the doorway to watch the father/son reunion. J.J. stood aside once she realized it was pointless to try to ease the power of the force drawing the two Hotchners together. Marty stood and watched the two slam into each other.

"Daddy! Daddy!" The son buried his face against the father's chest, throwing small arms as far as they could reach around the vulnerable ribs, whose damage he didn't know.

"Hey, Buddy…my Buddy…Buddy…Buddy…" The father responded by curling in on his child, wrapping his body around the small life for which he felt eternally, blissfully responsible.

The doctor was a little alarmed when Hotch's breathing roughened. Until he realized the man was struggling not to cry. He glanced at the others and moved close enough to speak into Hotch's ear, for him alone. He doubted Jack was paying attention to anything other than the familiar scent and feel of the man who was the center of his universe; who symbolized all he aspired to be on that far-off day when he attained his own adulthood.

With a small smile of sympathetic compassion, Marty leaned in and whispered. "Aaron, remember, you're emotional strength is compromised, just like that of your body. Remember…it's alright to cry." When he saw Hotch let a few tears escape, he straightened.

The doctor looked at the three agents lingering in the doorway. He didn't know any of them well enough to judge group dynamics beyond the fact that they were all extremely loyal, but Aaron was their leader. He was sure the man would prefer to keep any emotional display, any weakness, to himself. So Marty ushered the grinning trio out into the hallway.

Before he left the room himself, he had a few more words for Hotch.

"I'll be back with food and drink for you both. Remember our deal, Aaron. And I'll re-bandage your ribs later; after you've had a chance to eat and, hopefully, expand them a little with a full stomach." He smiled as the two continued to reacquaint themselves…a tumbled bundle of snuggling, nuzzling affection.

"Be right back, boys…"

xxxxxxx

Shortly after the doctor was gone, leaving the Hotchners alone and together for the first time in days, father and son drew back and surveyed each other.

Jack blinked, taking in his father's physical appearance. "You have spots, Daddy. Just like me." He stuck out one arm with its blotchy, red markings in proud display of measle-kinship.

"You're right." Hotch's voice sounded gravelly, whether from emotion or illness was debatable. But the grin on his face, although gaunt, was genuine. He laid his longer, more muscular arm alongside his son's. "Yup. Red spots. All over. Two of a kind." Both pairs of dark eyes narrowed, inspecting the rash, comparing it, contemplating its implication.

"Kind of a brotherhood thing," rasped Hotch. "Like a tribe."

"Tribes have names," Jack said with solemn conviction. He raised one brow in uncanny imitation of his father. "What tribe are we?"

When Marty returned, bearing a heavy tray laden with the most nourishing selections he could find in Garcia's panoply of offerings, he had his first encounter with The Spotted Tribe of The Raspberry Leopards.


	27. The Nature of Perfection

Having impressed upon the _junior_ member of the Raspberry Leopards that the _senior_ member would be at his disposal only as long as he continued to consume the feast that had been provided, Marty left the Hotchners to themselves.

Once Jack had sworn 'on Leopard's honor,' sealing his promise with the secret paw-shake…a convoluted affair that required the accompaniment of the tribal elder's hoarse roar…he thought he could trust the boy to see that his father would eat. Although, in truth, it looked as though Hotch wanted nothing more than to lie still and gaze at his son, eyes swimming with adoration.

Downstairs the rest of the group were enjoying Sunday brunch.

After Marty had filled a plate, he joined them around Rossi's immense, dining table, nodding when his host proffered a chilled glass of Mimosa.

"How're they doing up there?" Rossi raised his eyes toward the ceiling.

"Well, I was only gone ten minutes. When I returned they had created a new social order and had even begun to construct what looked like a political caste system."

Looks were exchanged all around.

"They are now a tribe." An anonymous choke from Prentiss' general direction punctuated the revelation. "The Spotted Tribe of The Raspberry Leopards." The doctor sniffed a bit forlornly, dismissively, having been excluded from the tribe's select membership. "Apparently, only those with the proper, viral pedigree need apply." He sighed. "I didn't make the cut."

Silence. Except for an abortive snort traceable to Garcia's nose muffled in a napkin.

"And they have a handshake, or…er…_paw_-shake."

Prentiss finally burst into laughter. She shook her head, smiling. "I bet Hotch was the kind of kid who had a secret clubhouse and spent hours making up a screening process for membership and the right to enter."

Garcia and Reid chuckled, imagining their leader as the stern boss of a gangly group of neighbor children. Rossi and Morgan exchanged unsmiling glances. They were privy to Hotch's reality. Neither could envision any levity at all in their friend's upbringing. J.J.'s smile was small, but grim. Although no words had ever been spoken, she sensed the deep fault of sadness running through Aaron. And she had no trouble guessing its origin. Reid had likewise felt a resonant echo of the injured boy in Hotch, but, without any proof or confirmation, he preferred to pretend that his Unit Chief had been a normal, happy child…for the most part, anyway.

Marty scanned the faces around him, cataloging which teammates seemed to have inside knowledge. Seeing Morgan's furtive look, he had a better understanding of the man's stubborn protectiveness. To a certain extent, he approved it.

Once the meal was over, a discussion of specifics was in order.

The team wanted to be sure of Hotch's welfare before they left, knowing work could keep them away for days on end. Nothing new was revealed, but reiteration of the obvious seemed to be a necessary part of the inevitable separation process.

"So you guys'll spell each other? And you'll get him to a hospital if he needs it? No matter how much he says he won't go?" They were Morgan's words, but the others were leaning forward, intent upon the answers. Ever and still…a team.

Rossi and Marty had ended up on the same side of the table. Now, facing the others across it, they felt part of some unofficial, but deadly serious, tribunal.

"Yes, Mr. Morgan." The doctor was patient, appreciating the concern of Aaron's _other_ tribe. "Ordinarily, I wouldn't be worried. But your friend's immune system has already been weakened by flu. There's no telling how severe the measles' peak will be…which I expect to happen fairly soon."

He saw shadows invade the agent's eyes and hastened to reassure him. "But he's young and strong and in better physical shape than most men his age..." His smile was rueful. "..Hell, for most men of _any_ age…And despite what you may think of emotion and its importance in the healing process, seeing his son and getting some food into him, have me feeling very optimistic about what's ahead."

When Morgan sighed and eased back into his chair, the others took a subconscious cue, relaxing in turn.

"Baby Girl, you'll keep us in the loop, right? Make sure Rossi and the Doc have everything they need…even if they _don't_ think they need it?"

Garcia's eyes were solemn behind her glittering turquoise frames. "You know it, Sugar."

Morgan nodded, realizing he was pushing the boundaries, but wishing he could fix the entire situation; wrench it into shape by the brute strength of his bare hands. "Well…" He glanced at J.J.. "…at least we know how to help him get to sleep."

Five other pairs of eyes looked at J.J., brows raised. But the only parent of the group, other than Hotch, returned their stares, puzzled. Morgan ducked his head in understanding; he hadn't told anyone about Hotch being soothed to sleep by J.J.'s lullaby via the monitor.

"She was singing to Jack. Something about horses and butterflies…I dunno. But it put Hotch out like a light. I was listening and next thing I know…Boss-man's gone." He grinned at J.J. "Got some kinda magic, Little Mama."

J.J. smiled in remembrance. "It's a lullaby, Derek. An old one. Not too many people use the original words because some of them aren't too pretty." Her eyes took on the liquid shimmer of an inner vision, a picture of things lost to time and changing tastes.

"But I still like the old words. They make me think of something strange and lonely." She shrugged. "Kind of like Hotch. I guess that's why I sang it to Jack."

After a few beats of silence, almost like the aftermath of a lullaby's spell, Prentiss shook herself, blinking. "S-o-o-o-o…what's the name of this magic song. And will it work if _any_ of us sing it?" Her grin was mischievous.

" 'All The Pretty Little Horses.' And if it works on Hotch, maybe we can test it next time we're on the jet." A look of complicity rippled through the younger agents. Rossi just shook his head.

"If one of you starts singing into our Unit Chief's ear, I want it clearly understood…_I had nothing to do with it_."

xxxxxxx

Brunch turned to lunch.

By late afternoon, Rossi's guests had gone home.

Each had wanted to say 'hi' to Hotch before leaving. Marty allowed a few minutes, but knew Aaron was tiring. And he wanted some time to talk to his patient before he fell asleep for the night. He had a feeling the fever would be closing in on him. There were some things he wanted to discuss before that happened.

The more he learned of Aaron, the more he felt the man was a time bomb. As life piled experiences against him, his self-image was interpreting them negatively. It wasn't his fault, but it was undermining his capacity for happiness and, worse, bleeding over into his son's psychological makeup.

Marty was no psychiatrist, but he wondered how much more Aaron could take. The moments of true joy were too few, too infrequent. And his patient seemed to endure them as though they were undeserved, or would be snatched away and subverted into something punishing…so it was safer _not_ to enjoy them too much.

_A curiously mirthless life_, thought the doctor. _Even if he doesn't crack, he'll never be truly happy. Maybe he __**needs**__ to crack…or at least understand the nature of cracks._

Finally, when Rossi had brought Jack back to his room and Aaron's sad eyes lingered on the door through which his son had disappeared, Marty felt the time was right. He'd wrapped the ribs, sore now from unaccustomed laughter. His patient was tired. He was relaxed and as happy as he'd ever be in the wake of his son's visit. His guard was further weakened by illness. The doctor pulled a chair to the bedside.

"How're you feeling?" His professional regard traveled over Hotch's face, noting details without even being aware of doing so.

"Fine. Good. 'M okay." The agent cleared his throat; sore from talking and Raspberry Leopard roaring.

"Feel up to a conversation…or maybe just listening…for a little while longer?"

Hotch nodded, avoiding using his worn voice. Marty handed him a can of ginger ale he'd brought up with a straw inserted. "Sip on this, it'll help your throat feel less scratchy."

Unusually obedient, Hotch did so, closing his eyes and leaning into the pillows stacked against his back. The doctor studied him for a few minutes before beginning.

"Aaron, we never concluded our discussion about why you think it's wrong for you to cry."

Hotch froze. He'd thought the explanation of why it was harder to control himself when he was feeling so sick _had_ been the conclusion. He was so tired, but he tried to pull himself together. He had a feeling he'd need to defend himself.

Marty held up a hand, forestalling any quick response. His intent was not to upset, but to open at least the consideration of new paths which might lead to Aaron's forgiving himself for the tremendous number of shortcomings he seemed willing to own.

"Actually, I want to talk about more than that. I suspect your attitude toward crying is just the tip of the iceberg." He paused, hoping he wasn't pushing this man too far. "I think your expectations and treatment of yourself are merciless, Aaron. Undeservedly so."

Hotch stared at his accuser, swaying slightly. Marty saw a frisson of fear pass through his patient's eyes. He didn't want people getting too close. They might see how much _lesser_ he was than everyone else.

"You've been talking to Dave."

The doctor decided to brazen it out. "Yes...a great deal. You might as well know, he's offered me part ownership of you." The dark eyes widened. "I'm considering taking him up on it."

The shock value of the statement had accomplished Marty's end: to knock Hotch a little off base, claiming his complete attention despite his weariness, and derailing any defensive arguments.

"I…I…"

Marty's smile at Aaron's confusion provided a gentle segue into the real topic. "Look, Aaron…I know you're not feeling well, and I don't mean to attack you when you're down. But there are a few thoughts I'd like to plant so you can sleep on them." He leaned forward, accenting his words with a light touch on the unshaven chin.

"If it makes you uncomfortable to talk about things that are too personal, then just listen. Let an old man who's seen too much ramble on for a few minutes. Think you can stay awake for that?"

Hotch nodded, still stuck on the idea of himself as a sort of timeshare or rental property. He covered up by seeming to be very involved in sipping more soda, but his attention had been caught.

Marty settled back, sighing. A distant look came into his eyes. He might have been someone's grandfather telling stories about 'the olden days.'

"I'd like to talk to you about the nature of perfection, Aaron."

Intrigued, Hotch listened in silence.

"Do you know that in almost every society, every culture, somewhere in their pasts, before the possibility of pre-formed, computerized, mechanized, absolutely symmetrical creations were possible…perfection was a dangerous thing?" He didn't expect an answer.

"It was. There were punishments for trying to attain it. People strove to avoid it. Why?" Again, a rhetorical question.

"Because it was thought that for a lowly human to aspire to perfection was an affront to the gods…or God…depending on the culture involved." Hotch sipped a little more, watching with wary, if weary, eyes.

"The Greeks considered it _hubris_, the inexcusable arrogance of pride, to think mere mortals could produce something perfect. Only the gods could do that. And if man tried, he would anger them." Marty shook his head. "The punishment of an angry god could be devastating. Whole civilizations could fall as the price for a man expecting, aspiring, attaining…perfection. Very frequently, _im_perfections would be intentionally included in works as a safeguard against divine rage. I personally have a basket woven by an elder of a Northwestern Indian tribe. It's beautiful. Tiny deer incorporated into the design. Almost perfect…except for the one little deer who was deliberately created with only three legs." The doctor's voice grew softer.

"Very frequently, the punishment for individuals struggling for perfection was madness…or a joyless life…a punishment that could sometimes pass from generation to generation." Marty paused, watching what he hoped was dawning awareness in this strict, young man's eyes.

"It's okay to cry. It's okay to be sick. It's practically mandatory to be flawed and lacking. To try to be anything else, anything…_perfect_…is inhuman. And it carries a tremendous price." Marty stood, brushing a last affectionate touch across Hotch's cheek.

"We all need cracks, Aaron. It's the only way the light can get in."


	28. Broken

Hotch watched the doctor leave.

Marty had touched his cheek, an affectionate, fatherly gesture that somehow didn't feel out of place, despite their having known each other such a short time. At the door, he'd glanced back at his patient and nodded, smiling; a distant expression returning to the kindly face.

"'May angels sing you to your rest, and may your pillow be made of wisdom.'" Amusement danced through the crinkled eyes. "Another old saying I encountered during my travels. Sweet dreams, young Aaron."

But Aaron didn't feel young at all. He felt used, and diseased, and battered from the inside out.

'_S alright…I'm used to it._

Hotch placed his half-finished can of soda on the nightstand. He pulled the monitor showing Jack closer, cuddling down into his blankets while he gazed at the image of his son. The child was already deep in peaceful slumber, a faint smile touching his lips.

Of all that Marty had said, the one phrase that had chilled Hotch's soul was that punishment for displeasing the gods could pass from generation to generation. He'd done his best to be a good father, but…_Maybe I'm so damaged, it's impossible._ _And maybe the harder I try, the worse it gets._

He had a feeling that wasn't the lesson he was supposed to take away with him, but he was too tired to examine the conversation from all the angles he supposed it had. And his head hurt. So did his right ear. And his throat. And he felt hot.

_I'm sick. I don't wanna think about anything._

But he couldn't stop the gears from turning, the images from forming. Finally, out of sheer, sick exhaustion, he drifted off.

xxxxxxxx

"Jack's fine. His rash is starting to fade."

Marty stretched his legs out, once again in the overstuffed, leather chair in Rossi's den; a place that was beginning to feel like home turf. "He'll be contagious for another few days, but the suffering part is over for him."

"And the worst is still to come for Aaron?" Rossi took the seat opposite the doctor's, handing his guest a tumbler of scotch in passing.

He nodded. "Sad, but true. Still, I'm glad they got some time together today." He glanced over to where Rossi was settling in, mirroring Marty's pose almost exactly, feet resting on an ottoman. "But we'll need to keep them apart again when Aaron's fever spikes. Boy doesn't need to see his father that way."

"Agreed."

Both men stared into the fire, heads nodding in unison like bobble-head creatures on a dashboard.

"I got a chance to talk to him, but I'm not sure how much sank in."

" 'S long as he listened." Rossi pulled his gaze from the flames. "Did he? Listen?"

The doctor's lips stretched in a mirthless smile. "Didn't have much choice. Not like he could run away."

"He has other ways of hiding." Rossi considered the Hotch he'd come to know so well. "He can be a slippery, little thing without even knowing he's doing it."

"Well…" Marty relaxed back and sighed. "…I think with two old dogs like us on his trail, we'll eventually run him to ground. Might take some time, but it'll be worth it…_He's_ worth it."

"Hear, hear." Rossi raised his glass toward his friend. "To Aaron, who's worth it…."

Marty responded to the toast. "To Aaron, who doesn't _know_ his own worth…yet."

Upstairs, the object of their well-wishes moaned in his sleep, feeling the cracks the doctor had told him about open in his skin. But instead of letting in light, it felt as though lava was flowing from them.

Quietly, Hotch began to burn.

xxxxxxx

Marty had taken the monitor from Jack's room into his own when he retired, as a precaution against the boy witnessing his father's increasing illness.

At the age of five, Daddy was the only constant in a life that had been destabilized by tragedy. The older men both reasoned that seeing the center of his world weaken would be detrimental to Jack's emotional recovery. He'd already learned that a parent could be taken from him. He didn't need to be taunted with the cruel realization that _both_ parents were up for grabs.

Plus, the doctor wanted to keep tabs on Aaron's progress.

But it was Rossi who woke at four in the morning, instantly alert, yet unaware of what had disturbed his rest. He sat up in bed, listening, every profiler's sense sharpened and extended, questing for the cause.

_Aaron!_

There was no reason to think so, but he knew. In his marrow, in his heart, he knew that Hotch was fighting something. And that his friend was frightened and in pain. Rossi vaulted from his bed. In the hallway, all was quiet. A quick check on Jack proved he was still immersed in a child's deep, restful sleep.

Rossi pushed the door to Hotch's room open and flipped on the light switch.

In deference to the sick man's sensitive eyes, most of the lights had been disconnected. Only the muted, bedside lamp blinked on. When Rossi saw what it revealed, he ran to Marty's room, tapping on the door with rapid urgency. The doctor knew immediately.

"Aaron?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Here we go."

xxxxxx

Hotch writhed on his bed, tangling himself in damp, clinging sheets. Fighting what felt like tentacles wrapping him in an inevitable hold, a purposeful shroud. Sweat poured from him. His chest labored for breath.

But in a deeper part of his mind, he was standing perfectly still.

In front of a mirror.

Again.

He tried to control the panic welling up inside him. Who would it be this time? His father? Foyet? Haley? His mother? Sean?

Expected, the hand reached around from behind. But not stroking…not delivering any sensual message at all. It didn't gloat, or threaten, or blame. It was merely…contact. Innocent.

"Daddy?"

Hotch's eyes closed in defeated horror.

_God, please…I don't want him in this place. Not Jack. Please, please. Not my son._

"Daddy?" The hand patted for attention, unaware that the one it touched was unable to move, unable to speak. In this place, superheroes were frozen, mute. Victims rather than champions.

"Daddy!"

Something was changing. Hotch was a tall, long-legged man. The hand that could normally reach to just above his waist was moving higher. And the voice entreating him was deepening, maturing. When the hand reached his shoulder and gripped, Hotch forced himself to look.

The face that hovered over his shoulder was somewhere in mid-adolescence. Leaner and longer than that of the child who lived in his heart. But the eyes were unmistakable. Family eyes. Hotchner eyes.

"Dad. You made me grow up without a mother, Dad."

_I'm sorry…sorry…sorry…sorry…_

"How could you do that to me?" The eyes were sharp, cruel, cold. Hotch squeezed his own shut, blocking out the venom in his son's glare. But he couldn't block the words.

"Did you hate me that much, Dad? You _know_ what parents are like." The voice was rising in anger.

"_You_ had a mother! You knew how bad fathers are…and _that's_ the parent you condemned me to grow up with?!" The voice had scaled higher, but it wasn't the result of emotion. Something was changing again. Tears burned Hotch's eyes. He had to open them to let the scalding liquid out.

And he saw.

It was five-year-old Jack's face again, staring up at him from mid-thigh level. And it was five-year-old Jack's sweet, piping voice that delivered the line Hotch knew, had always known would come…

"I _HATE_ you, Daddy! I _HATE_ you!"

The cracks in Hotch deepened and spread, interlacing, joining, running with tears and fire.

Covered with guilt, and Haley's blood, and his son's hate, Aaron Hotchner…

…shattered.


	29. Vanishing Act

Rossi had brought some washcloths, towels, and a basin of cool water.

Marty had pulled the raveled, twisted sheets away from Hotch's body.

Together, the older men pulled off the t-shirt he'd been using to cover his scars and the dressing around his damaged ribs.

"Should we take that bandage off?" Rossi was anxious to make Hotch as comfortable as possible. It seemed to him the less clothing or covering, the better.

The doctor paused, running over various possible scenarios connected to high fever and their consequences. "No. If the fever runs too high, there's a possibility of convulsions. I'd like to keep the bandages in place. It's kind of six of one, half a dozen of another…you know? Rib damage versus the slight ease unbinding them might provide."

Rossi took a deep breath. "Alright. You're the doc." Hotch moaned, curling in on himself. "Should I get some ice? Should we cool him down?"

Marty shook his head. "No. First thing I need is to take his temperature." His voice took on a studied, calm tone. It was the sound of someone assuming authority, taking on the burden of decision-making. It had been developed over the course of years and the treatment of thousands. And it worked.

Rossi recognized it as the matured version of the voice that had talked him through removing a bullet from a comrade in the Viet Nam night. He realized he'd been taking shallow breaths, tensing his muscles in sympathy with embattled Hotch. He relaxed. And said the same words in an eerie repetition of the events that had brought these two friends together so long ago.

"What next? Tell me what to do."

The connection to their mutual past wasn't lost on Marty. His eyes flicked up, met Rossi's and…held…for a moment.

"Dave, we'll get him through this. We've been through worse. And from what you've told me, he has, too."

Rossi ducked his head in acknowledgement. "I know. It's just..."

"It's just that you love him and you wish you could spare him. Right?"

"Yeah." Rossi sighed. "He's been through too much. I just wish things could be easier for him; _life_ could be easier."

The doctor's rueful chuckle felt like a momentary alien presence in the apprehensive sickroom atmosphere. "We both know _nothing_ gets easier. What makes things _seem_ to be easier, for some, is learning how to respond to the tough times. We can't control what happens in life. But we _can_ control how we react to it."

Rossi nodded. "I know. Still…"

Marty's lips quirked upward at one corner. "Yeah. Wise words, but I feel the same way: _'Still…'_"

The two older men paused, looking down from opposite sides of the bed at the younger one, struggling against some unseen foe, lips moving with half-formed, unheard words. Marty rummaged through his bag, coming up with a digital thermometer. It took both hands for him to use it. One flattened against Hotch's cheek, holding his head steady. The other tried to insert the device under his tongue. After a moment, the doctor hissed disapproval at himself. _Sheesh! You care about him, too. So much so that you're not thinking straight, Mr. Doctor!_

Abandoning the first, he plunged back into the bag, this time bringing up the thermometer he'd used on Jack. A brief moment in Hotch's ear was all it needed to display its verdict.

103 degrees.

Rossi waited for professional interpretation of the reading.

"High. But not in the danger zone yet." The doctor wiped the thermometer down with a sterile pad of gauze and placed it on the nightstand, keeping it handy for additional monitoring of Aaron's fever. "If he goes over 104, I'll likely make the decision to hospitalize him." His voice remained calm, informative…in direct contrast to the information itself.

"Dave, be prepared. Even at 103, he could experience hallucinations or convulsions. Higher than 104…usually around 107…brain damage occurs." He held Rossi with a firm look. "I don't expect him to get anywhere near that. But in the interest of full disclosure…I'm just sayin'…"

Rossi nodded, shivering in sympathy as Hotch's body shuddered, and tried again. "You don't think some ice would help?"

"No." Marty shook his head. "I know it seems like the logical thing to do, but it'll have the opposite effect of what you're hoping for." He saw the quizzical, slightly desperate-to-help-Aaron look on Dave's face and knew more explanation was needed.

"Right now his hypothalamus has reset his body temperature. In a word, the landlord turned up the heat to make it so uncomfortable for undesirable tenants, they'll vacate. If you pack ice around him, the landlord'll think he needs to turn up the heat even more." Marty gave Rossi a grim glance. "The fever'll increase."

Rossi swallowed. "I'm glad you're here. That might've been my first move." _Who'm I kidding? My first move, if I didn't already have a doctor here, would be to get this man to an ER._ He hadn't expected Hotch to be taken so severely. The sight of him at the height of his illness gave him a new appreciation for Morgan's stubborn concern.

Rossi sat on the mattress close to Hotch, bracing himself with one arm, the hand resting at the far side of the sick man's waist. "Is a cool compress okay?"

"Sure."

Rossi dipped one of the cloths he'd brought into the basin of water. Ringing it almost dry, he tried to wipe some of the sweat from Hotch's face and chest. But the sick man was moving too much. His arms came up, crossing against his forehead, as though he were shielding himself from something. Marty grasped his wrists and brought the arms down, holding them still at his patient's sides, letting Dave press the damp, cool, hopefully soothing, cloth against him.

Hotch tried to pull away, but it was a weak effort. The doctor had no trouble thwarting it. However, the small whimpering sound that accompanied the failed attempt to break free, tore at both older men's hearts.

"God only knows where he is, or what he's doing."

"Or what's being done _to_ him…"

xxxxxxx

He recognized it as a carnival funhouse.

But there was nothing fun about it.

He was surrounded by reflections.

The mirror of his nightmares had multiplied, hemming him in with sadistic intent. He was rooted where he stood. The silvered sheets of glass moved about him, weaving and sliding…occasionally shattering, peppering him with scattered shards, each one carrying an image he dreaded…each one scoring his already scarred flesh.

The voices of his past formed a chorus; every accusation, threat, taunt, rising from memories he hadn't known he retained in such exquisitely excruciating detail. Each one sporting a fresh coat of brutal cruelty. But Hotch was tough. He could take it.

Until that one voice he'd never imagined would be raised against him joined in. Not from the past, but from the future.

Jack.

His son, finally grown and seeing what everyone else had seen in him all his life: Daddy was a failure, worthless…never good enough. Fraud. Coward. Someone whose only hope was to hide. Otherwise, if anyone got too close, they'd see him for what he was. It didn't matter how much love was in his heart. Or how hard he tried.

Worthless.

Failure.

Better off without you.

Why else would his own father have despised him…his wife left him…even his superior at work tried to destroy him?

Weak and ill, Hotch started to cry. But when he saw the tears, he screamed in sick, tortured defeat, wailing his heartbreak at seeing what he'd always suspected.

Each small, clear drop was another tiny mirror, reflecting the empty hollowness he'd always known was inside him. The lack. The lesser-ness. The reason he was so hate-able…so easy to abandon. Empty. No solid core. A malfunction. An error.

And he didn't know how to run from himself. And he couldn't hide far enough or deep enough. His worthlessness would always make itself known. _The truth will out…_

Hotch curled into a tight, painful ball, realizing he'd found the only tribe where he truly belonged. They surrounded him. They stared out of the mirrors and mocked him.

The Tribe Of Those Who Hate Aaron Hotchner.

xxxxxx

When Hotch stopped writhing, stopped trying to defend himself…when he contracted, seemingly determined to take up the least amount of space possible…Rossi couldn't stand it anymore.

_He's trying to disappear…another form of hiding._

He stopped applying the questionable comfort of cool compresses. Scooting closer, he lifted Hotch against himself, tightened one arm around the shivering, sweating shoulders and one around the waist…and refused to let his friend vanish any further.


	30. Turning Point

So intent were Marty and Rossi on tending to Hotch, they didn't realize how much time had passed. Until they were reminded.

A small gasp.

Standing in the doorway.

Jack.

Come to see Daddy, Spotted Chief of the Raspberry Leopards. Come to paw-shake and nuzzle against the strong, solid warmth of the chest that contained the most beautiful, noble heart in the whole, wide world.

Jack.

Watching with wide, horrified eyes. Hotchner eyes at their most vulnerable.

Rossi's arms were still full of Aaron; had been for the last two hours. Marty had been monitoring his patient's temperature and wiping him down with cool, damp cloths. He'd crushed some ibuprofen, intending to dissolve it into fruit juice, and try to get a few sips into Hotch, but Rossi had put a stop to it. He knew Aaron's stomach was sensitive. The aftermath of that particular drug, in the Unit Chief's words, felt like 'trying to digest crushed glass.'

So the doctor had found some acetaminophen and was about to crush a tablet, hoping it would reduce the fever a little without hurting Hotch's digestive system, when he picked up on something having gone terribly wrong.

The entire time Rossi was holding Hotch, he'd been talking to him, murmuring soft words over and over; the general theme being safety and love. When the constant stream of comforting sounds stopped, Marty glanced at his friend. The look on Rossi's face made the doctor follow his stare.

There in the doorway. The littlest Hotchner. Seeing something no child should: Daddy; his one, surviving parent; his last tie to normalcy and security…trembling, sweating, crying.

Weak.

Endangered.

"Oh, God." Rossi spoke under his breath. "Get him out of here."

He hadn't needed to say it. Marty was already on his feet and halfway to the child.

But Hotchners are an agile breed.

They weren't the most heavily muscled of men. But they were built slim, built quick, built crafty. Too fast for an old doctor. Jack darted and spun, evading well-meaning hands that would have taken him from the sight of his delirious, downed superhero.

Jack dodged and twisted, winning his way to the bed. Launching himself onto the nest of tangled sheets. Fastening onto Hotch with a fervor and purpose that would not be denied.

Rossi did his best.

"Jack, you need to go with Dr. Palmer, son. Your Daddy'll be fine, but we need to give him rest…Remember? Remember what Ms. Garcia told you about Batman needing to be alone in the Bat Cave?" Rossi tried to keep too much emotion from leaking into the words. He tried to sound calm and adult and matter-of-fact. He willed his voice to be one that merited unquestioned obedience.

But Hotchners are also a smart breed.

Jack twined himself around his father and turned a glare on the rest of the world that would have made Aaron proud. It made both grown men flinch backwards. Only for a moment. Only a small flinch. But, then, it was only a small Hotchner defying them.

"Please, son." The doctor approached with respectful caution. Force would not come into play here. He pinned all his hopes on his powers of persuasion. "Please, Jack. It really would be best if you went back to your room." He extended a hand. "I'll take you."

Marty's eyes brightened with another strategy. "We'll find Mudge…And you haven't met _my_ dog yet. Black as night she is. Name's Fudge. Would you like that? I'll get you some breakfast and the three of you can keep each other company?"

"No." Jack tightened his grip. Rossi recognized the same tactic that Hotch had used when he'd melded himself to the doorjamb, determined to stay in his son's presence, making it nearly impossible for muscular Morgan to pry his sinewy body away.

Dave couldn't help feeling a touch of amusement. _They're two of a kind in so many ways. _

"No," the child repeated.

Hotch's body was shivering. Thankfully, he hadn't moaned or made any of the small whimpering sounds that caused Rossi's eyes to well with moisture.

Marty dropped the hand that had still been extended in invitation. His shoulders slumped. Clearly, ordinary subterfuge wouldn't work on this boy who'd been through too many experiences uncharacteristic of childhood. It was time for simple honesty.

The doctor sighed, sitting on the bed, resting a hand on Aaron's thigh, still drawn up as the man tried to make himself small, safely unnoticeable, blessedly anonymous.

"Jack, you know your father's sick. You both have measles, but it's a little different when you get it and you're older. I know it looks bad, but I promise you, your Poppi and I are doing everything we can to make it easier for him. This is the worst of it. But it'll pass." He gave Hotch a considering look, patting the tense thigh muscle. "Thing is, we need to concentrate to take care of him, and that's kind of hard when you're here."

"Why?" The glare was still in full force.

"Because we know he wouldn't want you here. It makes us worry about the both of you…instead of just the one of you."

Jack surveyed both men with a gimlet eye. "I can help."

This time Rossi responded. "No. Jack, you can't. Not right now. When he's past this part of it, _that's_ when you can help." The voice grew softer, all pretense gone. Nothing but sincerity for Hotch's son to hear. "You made your Daddy so happy yesterday afternoon. He needs that…needs _you_…so much, Jack. But right now, you have to let us work on him alone. Then you can have him back. Please, son."

With an expression that was years too old for him, the child pulled away and looked at his father. After a moment, he came to a decision. After all, Daddy had told him to do as Poppi said, if he wasn't there. And, in a way, Daddy _wasn't_ there. Rossi had a hard time of it when Jack loosened his hold, and drew himself up to press a soft, tender kiss on his father's sweat-soaked, dark hair.

"I love you, Daddy."

With unimpeachable, oddly adult dignity, the five-year-old climbed off the bed and allowed Marty to lead him away. But at the door he stopped, taking a last look at the man who defined his universe.

"My fault. My fault Daddy's sick." The sorrow and guilt in the words, and in every line of the small body as it turned away, was inappropriate for a little boy.

Rossi couldn't help thinking that Jack was learning much more from Hotch than was good for either of them.

xxxxxx

Once he'd ensconced Jack back in his bed with Mudge and Fudge in attendance, and with enough breakfast to allow for canine mooching tendencies, Marty returned to Hotch's room.

Rossi continued to rock his friend's shuddering body, talking steadily about nothing in particular, as long as the words 'safe' and 'loved' were frequent. The doctor resumed his interrupted task of dissolving fever-reducers and getting them into Hotch, a sip at a time.

The next temperature reading was 103.5.

The older men's eyes met. Both thinking the same thing.

"He doesn't want to be hospitalized, Marty."

"I know. But we might need to."

"Damn."

Rossi pulled Hotch closer, rocking almost imperceptibly. Out of nowhere, he remembered Morgan's story at brunch. About J.J.. And a strange, sad lullaby whose words were old. Rossi closed his eyes. Afterwards, he wouldn't know where he'd heard the tune or from whom. But it came when he needed it.

Hush-a-bye

Don't you cry…

The melody was in a minor key…

Blacks and bays

Dapples and grays

All the pretty little horses.

J.J. was right; there was something haunting about it…

Bees and butterflies

Flitting 'round his eyes

Poor little thing is crying

Mammy.

xxxxxxx

In the dark, hot cavern of his soul, a place carved by delirium, Hotch felt something change.

Through all the pain and hate burning into him, against all odds, something like a cool breeze whispered its way in. It was minor and strange and sadly beautiful.

Slowly, slowly, Hotch's muscles began to relax.


	31. Sweet Lies

"He's gone limp."

Rossi felt the gradual change in Hotch's muscles, the toned tension bleeding out.

Marty listened and felt and palpated. "I'm not sure. He's either past the delirium, or completely exhausted. Maybe both." The thermometer was brought out again.

102.5

Rossi didn't even need to know the number. The doctor's grin was a surer indicator of good news than any digital readout. Still, although the man looked hopeful, he didn't have the blissfully relieved expression Rossi would have expected if this were the end of all their worries concerning Aaron. Marty confirmed his suspicion.

"He's better. This is very encouraging."

Rossi's brows rose. "B-u-u-u-t…?"

"But he's still not out of the woods." When it didn't sound as though more information would be forthcoming, Rossi pushed a little.

"So…if he's still _in_ the woods, what exactly do the trees surrounding him look like?"

The doctor ducked his head, savoring the touch of humor in a room that had been so fraught with anxiety for hours. "The fever's still high. Too high for him to sustain it for more than a couple of days."

He rubbed his chin, feeling the stubble he hadn't had a chance to shave off that morning. "We'll just have to keep monitoring him. The fever might break and rise repeatedly. He could go on that way for several days. He'll be miserable, but not in any real danger." He sighed. "We'll just have to stick with him and see."

Rossi echoed the doctor's weary sigh, pulling Hotch a little bit closer, both taking and giving comfort from the hug. "Well, at least he hasn't coughed for a while."

"Yeah. That." The tone contained a subtext that made Dave look up. "Again, there are a couple of possibilities. Either the cough's gone…he's over it. Or, he's just too tired, too depleted, to expend the energy necessary to clear his respiratory system."

Marty's expression was solemn. "That kind of exhaustion is often a precursor to pneumonia."

Rossi cinched the limp body in even more tightly. Watching Aaron's still face for any signs of waking, or any portents of his dreams, he resumed humming the mournful tune of J.J.'s lullaby.

The doctor's faint smile was sad, filled with gentle teasing. "I thought you were the one who wouldn't be caught dead singing into your Unit Chief's ear."

Rossi raised one brow and shrugged. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on making each note pitch perfect.

xxxxxxxx

Hotch felt the soft, cool pull of a breeze.

It traveled across his body, bringing relief. But it wanted something, too. It wasn't just giving of itself. He sensed there was a reciprocity involved.

It wanted him to follow it.

But he was so tired. He barely had the energy to breathe. His body felt drained, encased in an inch-thick, layer of lead.

_So leave your body behind…_

What little breath Hotch had, hitched in his chest. That suggestion hadn't come from the pleasant, sweet presence of the breeze. It was something else…_from_ somewhere else. Calling to him. Entreating him. He could feel it gathering itself, becoming more and more importunate now that it knew it had his attention.

_It's easy…I'll show you how…_

It wasn't a disembodied voice. Not exactly. It came from someplace that felt familiar; someplace nearby. Someplace that had always been available to him. But it was also a place he'd studiously avoided. There was something wrong about listening to it.

Small wings of panic began to beat deep inside Hotch.

_Leave the body behind…you can be so free…you have no idea…_

_But…_

_Shhhhhhh…Shhhhhh…No 'but's…just…let…go…_

xxxxxxx

Jack lay on his side. Disconsolate.

Even though he was better, he felt worse.

And even the soft, furry company of two large dogs couldn't warm up the spot inside him that felt like a chip of ice. Hard and cold and jagged.

_Daddy's sick because of me._

He was painfully aware that the monitor he'd been using to watch Daddy had been taken away. He didn't question it. He knew why.

_Because I was bad. I made Daddy sick, so I can't have him anymore._

Mudgie gave a low whine, nuzzling this small, human pup. It exuded a sorrowful scent that was very disturbing. Fudge insinuated her long body against the pup's other side. Between them the two dogs settled down to their vigil.

With the intuitive, canine way that baffled all humans, they sensed a storm coming.

xxxxxx

After a while, during which Hotch remained calmly quiescent, the older men decided to take breaks, spelling each other in watching over him.

Rossi uncurled the now pliant body, laying it out full-length on the bed. He straightened, stretching out the kinks he'd developed; the result of holding the same position for hours.

"I'll go check on Jack. Then, I'll bring up some breakfast for us." He tilted his head, giving Hotch a considering look. "Maybe some orange juice. Might be able to get a few sips into him."

Marty nodded, taking a place at his patient's side. "Maybe. I think he's just worn out now. The next few hours should tell us more…whether the fever's going to go into a spiking pattern or not. Whether his lungs'll stay clear or not." The look he gave Rossi was grave. "You heard what his son said, right? About blame?"

"Yeah. I did." The accompanying sigh was deep with regret.

"Like father, like son." The doctor shook his head. "Dave, I honestly thought Aaron was the only one we had to worry about." He smoothed a damp strand of hair from Hotch's forehead. "The boy's too young to be taking blame for anything. How, on God's green earth, did he pick up that 'I'm not good enough unless I'm perfect' attitude already?"

Rossi shrugged. "He's a smart kid. Very perceptive. Sensitive. Worships Daddy. Watches Daddy. Emulates Daddy."

Marty's initial response was a semi-derisive snort. But when he turned back to his patient, wondering about the complexity hidden beneath the pale, chiseled features, his final verdict was soft. Almost a whisper.

"Like father, like son. And if we can't help them, they're both damned."

xxxxxxxxx

Hotch was tempted.

The battles that life presented him just never seemed to get any easier. And he never seemed to get any better at fighting them. And with Jack in the picture, the stakes just kept getting higher in the face of his failure.

_Better off without you…_

He'd heard that before. From the mirror-people. He didn't want to listen to them. Couldn't help doing so…but didn't want to. The only thing that had felt good, sounded good, in this place was in that melodic, cool breeze.

He lifted his nose, scenting for it…trying to decipher it, separate it from these other, denser currents eddying about him.

But it was gone. It had stopped.

In its place, a frisson of dark mirth shuddered over him.

_Lullabies are only sweet lies, dropped in the ears of the those who cry…It was a lie…It's gone now…no more tears…follow me…follow…follow…_

_But Jack…_

_Better off without you…_

xxxxxxxx

Rossi walked the distance to Jack's room, heart growing heavier, sadder, with every step.

_If only we could pick and choose the traits that pass from one generation to the next._

He found it insufferable that the qualities of self-doubt and self-loathing instilled in Aaron by the vicious beast who sired him, should be passed on to a son whose father adored him, would give up everything, would sacrifice himself without hesitation, in the name of loving his son.

_Not fair. But then, when is life ever…?_

Turning the corner into Jack's room, Rossi paused.

The child had dozed off, bracketed by Mudge and Fudge. As he stepped nearer, both dogs raised their heads, tensing. Rossi frowned.

"What it is boy? Everything okay?"

He ruffled the soft, palomino-gold ears, getting the distinct impression from both animals that they were on guard…that they would appreciate being left alone. _Please leave. _Rossi looked down at the boy. Not shamming. Definitely asleep.

He sighed. The discussion of guilt and blame and love would have to wait. He collected the dishes from the breakfast Marty had brought up and left.

Two pairs of strangely wise, canine eyes met over the body of the pup they were protecting. It was good the man had left the young one undisturbed.

Now things could take their natural, necessary course.

The dogs lowered their heads to their paws. And waited.

xxxxxxx

The breeze and its sweet music were gone.

Hotch saw no reason he shouldn't let go, follow the call surrounding, cradling, tempting him.

_So easy…just…stop…let go…so…free…you'll be…_

The heavy lead coating his body was seeping inward, surrounding his lungs, his heart. It was hard to keep breathing. It took too much effort. If he could just stop for a few minutes, it would feel so good.

He relaxed into the idea of absolute stillness. Yes, it _was_ easy. The voice hadn't lied. Which meant maybe the lullaby had. He took a last breath and let it…go…

_Peace. Utter, profound peace._

_Daddy?_

Hotch's newfound peace…

…shattered.


	32. The Path Home

Every fiber of Hotch's being had been on the verge of…

…looking forward to…

…submitting to…

…that increasingly seductive voice.

He recognized it as an amalgam of the voices that had berated him all his life; that had turned him into the lesser creature that he was. But now…now it was offering him the chance to do something it would approve. And he needed that validation so badly. He was relaxing into the idea of…just…letting…go….

And then…that one word electrified him.

_Daddy?_

_**Jack**__?!_

It took several beats for each to realize the general direction, the reality, of the other's presence.

_Jack! What are you doing here? You shouldn't be here._

He wasn't even sure where 'here' was, but he knew his son didn't belong where he did. Jack was extraordinary. He was the one who was flawed beyond reclamation.

_Jack? Go home!_

A sense of quiet, childish sobbing almost broke what was left of Hotch's heart.

_I'm sorry, Daddy…sorry…sorry…sorry…_

_Why? Buddy, why?_

_I love you 'n I made you sick. Sorry…sorry…sorry…_

Hotch had been so tired, so defeated. But hearing the echo of his own sorrow, the chant that had been the soundtrack of his own childhood, in his son's voice…Aaron felt a rage, a strength, flowing through him that was endless, boundless. Who _dared_ tell his son that he was responsible for Daddy's illness? The wolf that crouched in the deepest part of his soul bared its teeth and growled, gathering itself to punish whoever _dared_ give his son such ideas.

_You __**didn't**__ make me sick. Sick happens. It's no one's fault._ Hotch felt that internal growl growing. _Who told you it was your fault, Jack? __**Who**__?_

The boy didn't have an answer. It was one of those 'just 'cause' moments that weave through childhood when the vocabulary to explain oneself doesn't yet exist. When things that just _are_, can't be traced to things that _were_. He didn't know how to tell Daddy that blaming themselves is what Hotchners do. He saw it all the time. He heard it through his bedroom walls at night; Daddy's secret sorrow. But not a secret from his son. Rather, a secret his son shared. Secretly.

When asked for elaboration, all Jack could do was sob his grief, and echo the one word that he could always feel resonating through his father. Even though they'd never discussed it; even though he didn't understand it. He was…

…_sorry…sorry…sorry…_

Hotch's anger gathered, grew molten.

The voice enticing him to a final, lasting rest was burned away, unable to withstand the savage ferocity of a father's bone-deep determination to defend his child.

_**Who**__, Jack? Who?_

_No one! Jus' __**is**__…sorry…sorry…_

With a low, guttural growl, Hotch turned away from the dark peace that had seemed so enticing, so desirable. He pulled himself back from the brink, and turned toward the lost, wounded sound of his son.

xxxxxxx

While Rossi took a quick shower and threw together an impromptu breakfast composed of various a-la-Garcia dishes, Marty kept watch over Hotch.

Something disturbed him.

True, the man's temperature had come down, and he'd stopped crying out, making those heartrending, whimpering noises. But the more the doctor observed him, the less he liked how still he'd become. His chest barely moved, an indication of the shallow kind of respiration that, if prolonged, was conducive to pneumonia.

When Rossi returned, Marty was still unsure. He had a worrisome suspicion that the fevered dreams might have been replaced by something still in a developmental stage, but potentially just as lethal. The frustrating thing was there was nothing medically evident. Nothing he could fasten onto that would clue him in on how to effectively treat…_whatever_ it was.

He was still mulling the matter over when Rossi placed a plate with a slice of salmon quiche and several savory sides before him.

"Thanks." The doctor took a desultory bite, not fully appreciating the magic that was Garcia-in-the-kitchen. He glanced up at Rossi, interrupting the study of his patient. "How's Jack?"

"Asleep. I'll have a talk with him when he wakes up."

Marty resumed his calculated regard of Hotch. "This one needs a talking-to as well."

"More like an intervention." Rossi felt his appetite fade away when faced with the problem of Aaron.

The doctor's brows rose in consideration of what _did_ bear an unfortunate resemblance to dependence. "Addicted to his own past…That's a new one."

"If we follow that paradigm, we're admitting he can't ever fully recover."

"When it comes to the past, to where we come from, and what formed us…can any of us fully recover?"

Rossi shrugged. "Guess not. So the best we can do is raise his awareness…give him something to work on overcoming for the rest of his life without any real hope of success?" He turned troubled eyes on his friend. "Do you think he needs that? Another burden that makes him think he's…what was that phrase?... 'a child of a lesser god?'"

Marty's sigh was full of sad resignation. He set his plate down on the nightstand, thoughts of Aaron pushing out any hunger he might have felt. "No. He absolutely doesn't need that. But that's the hand that's been dealt him. He has to play it out to the best of his ability." A small smile ghosted over the doctor's lips. "And I think we can agree that his abilities are…considerable."

Rossi nodded. "And we'll have to keep an eye on him. Make sure there's no backsliding." He glanced from Hotch's still features to the doctor's worried ones; the smile already faded back to grim reality. "What's bothering you, Marty? There's something more going on, isn't there…?"

"I dunno. But, yeah, something's not right."

Both men studied the still form on the bed, scanning it from head to toe and back again. The doctor shook his head, puzzled.

"I don't know what it is, but something's just not what it should be." He yawned, standing and arching some of the tension out of his back muscles. "I'm gonna go get washed up. Maybe I'm just tired; worrying about things that don't exist. I dunno. I'll be back."

As he left the room to refresh himself as best he could, he couldn't help another small smile.

Rossi had immediately moved to sit at Hotch's shoulder. Glancing back, Marty saw the older agent lean over his unconscious friend. Trailing gentle fingers over the contours of the still face, Dave's eyes were intent. Unthinking, he began to murmur soft, melodic words that came without effort from a place he didn't understand, but accepted must be part of his own past.

_Maybe I wanted to sing this to my own son…the one lying beneath a headstone for almost as many years as Aaron's been alive…Maybe J.J. just reminded me…_

Bees and butterflies

Flitting 'round his eyes

Poor little thing is crying…

xxxxxx

The heat of fever had weakened Hotch.

But the heat of anger that someone, _anyone_, should have misled his son into believing he was to blame for falling ill, poured a rabid strength into him that defied containment. Someone would pay for this, for putting such thoughts in Jack's mind. But, as yet, he had no idea who.

Nor did he have an inkling in which direction to aim his rage.

In fact, he realized he didn't know where he was…where _they_ were. He could feel Jack's small, sorrowful presence, but there was no path leading away from wherever they were. Growling with frustration, Hotch cast about, questing for a sign, a scent…anything that would help him take his son from this place.

He became aware of the change in Jack first.

The crying eased. The sobs turned to sniffles. The breathing evened out. Something was soothing the child. Hotch's relieved gratitude softened the burning edges of his fury…just enough to let in…

… a sound. Sweet. And minor. And hauntingly sad.

It unwound the anxiety binding his heart. His inner vision calmed, then cleared.

Lifting his head toward the melody, Hotch knew he could follow it out. When he cast about for Jack's presence, he realized his son already had…

Taking a deep breath, Hotch followed.


	33. Deal

Rossi was caught off guard when Hotch's body suddenly arched upward, the lungs pulling in a tremendous breath, filling to capacity with a ragged gasping sound.

And morphing into a cough.

"Ah, no. Not again." He leaned over, cupping one hand around the left side of his friend's ribs, hoping that, along with the bandaging, it was enough to support and protect. "C'mon, Aaron. Relax. Just settle down and breathe easy. C'mon…"

For his part, Hotch felt as though he'd rocketed back from wherever that misty, gray place had been, with a primal roar of parental rage. It was a bit discomfiting to realize he'd wheezed himself into awareness and was now trapped in a weakened body that Dave could hold down with the minimal effort of one hand. But there were more important things at stake than his ribs.

He needed reassurance that Jack was alright. He'd take a barrage of sledge hammers to the ribs if it would buy him the knowledge that his son was safe.

But this wasn't an assailant. It was Dave. And there were no sledge hammers; just a large hand that was as intent on protecting him from pain and damage, as he was determined to do so for Jack. Grave, dark eyes looked into his own as the hand went from a steady, stabilizing grip to a gentle, massaging motion.

"Calm down, Aaron. You're safe. Everything's okay. Slow down your breathing. S-l-o-w down."

He couldn't explain it, but Dave's touch always made him feel better; as though he mattered, as though he was more than just a tool to be used, or a weapon to be deployed in the ongoing battle against the 'bad guys.' There was something warm and caring about Rossi. Aaron saw his need for such kindness as another flaw in his own basic structure. But he couldn't help being drawn to it. He tried to do what Rossi wanted. He slowed his breathing and stopped struggling. Gradually, the cough came under control, progressing into a series of embarrassingly ineffectual, squeaky hiccups.

"That's right. Atta boy. S-l-o-w breaths."

"Jack." Hotch was alarmed at the sound of his own voice. Hoarse and raw, and pleading. Not the strong howl of alpha strength that had altered his destination in that other, gray place. "Jack," he croaked.

"Jack's fine. I checked on him. He's asleep. Now how 'bout we concentrate on you for a change?" The hand was still massaging, comforting. "Nice, even breaths, okay? Your son is safe. You're safe. Just breathe, Aaron."

Hotch's compliance was reluctant. He couldn't explain his need to see Jack until his breathing was more controlled. And he couldn't extract himself from Rossi's hands. He was too weak and Dave was too strong. The fastest route to Jack was to make himself better.

Or at least to appear better.

xxxxxx

Jack struggled up from where he'd been laying, hemmed in by two large, canine bodies.

"Daddy." It was a muffled, sleepy demand.

He started to wriggle his way up and out. He didn't care if Poppi and the doctor didn't want him there. He had to go see Daddy. Had to be sure he was here…and not there…where the air was all gray and they couldn't really see each other.

But something that felt like a small log, or a very large stick, thwarted his progress. Then another landed on his back, pinning him in place. He craned his neck around, trying to see what was happening.

"Mmmmffffrrrr…rrrrr…rrrrr." Mudgie moaned through a cavernous yawn.

"Wwwrrrrrr…rrrrfffff." Fudge replied, dropping her large head onto the pup's shoulders, joining Mudge's forelegs splayed across the pup's back, keeping him in place.

When the big, wet noses began snuffling and pushing at him, Jack couldn't help it. He burst into giggles. This pleased Mudgie and Fudge. Their tails thumped in tacit approval.

Well-nuzzled pups were always easier to handle. And this one should rest. It wasn't time for him to leave the lair just yet.

xxxxxx

"Well…welcome back, Aaron." Marty returned refreshed from his shower and extremely relieved to see Hotch's eyes open, and his chest movement signifying more normal respiration.

He toweled at his still-damp, thinning hair as he moved to the bedside. "How do you feel?"

Hotch's throat was so sore he would have resorted to sign language if he'd known it…charades if he'd been any good at parlor games. But he wanted them to think he was so improved he could either be left on his own, or be allowed to take a short walk in the hallway. Anything that would provide an opportunity for him to go in search of Jack.

"Great." He rasped out the word, unable to keep from swallowing reflexively at the pain, resulting in the exchange of skeptical glances between the older men.

Marty's lips thinned. _Dave said he had an extensive repertoire of ways to hide. _

The doctor abandoned his towel, tossing it over the back of a chair, and rummaged deep into his little, black bag. Extracting a small penlight, he sat beside Hotch and with a firm hand under his patient's chin, tipped his head back.

"Open up and say 'ahhhh.'" The penlight was held in readiness, poised to reveal what the doctor was sure would be a raw, red throat. Possibly with the white markings of strep. It wasn't uncommon with measles.

Hotch blinked. Rossi raised one brow.

"C'mon, son. Either let me see a nice, healthy set of tonsils…if you've still got yours…or admit you feel like hell."

Hotch tried to muster his glare, hoping to bluff his way through, staving off any further examination. But things weren't working out as envisioned. Just as he'd thought he was returning in a whirlwind of fury, which ended up being a pitiful coughing fit, now the Unit Chief found his glowering expression merely elicited suspicious head-shakes, and sighs.

"That's what I thought." Marty flicked the light off when his patient's mouth remained resolutely closed. "Don't try to lie about being sick, Aaron. It might work with some minor affliction, but not with the viral plague that's currently working its way through you."

Rossi shook his head, disappointed at the tactic. "Wha'd'you hope to accomplish, Aaron? You couldn't go ten feet without falling over or passing out. And both you and Jack are still contagious for measles. You can't leave." Another sigh, half sympathy, half frustration, presaged his next words. "You need to learn to admit when you need help, and to take it when it's offered. While we've got you here, as soon as you're well enough to pay attention, we're going to have a nice, long discussion about that…"

"…And some other things…," interjected Marty.

Rossi nodded. "…And some other things."

Hotch wavered. Clearly, his standard methods of concealment were defective, in disarray and disrepair. His hiding places were vanishing. Hotch felt emotionally naked. He hated it. He would have pulled into himself and burrowed into the bedding, if it had been just him. But Jack was involved. The echoes of that dreary, gray place where they'd met were still shivering through him.

And his son's words. _…sorry…sorry…sorry…_

The memory brought back some of his protective, paternal anger. His brows drew together. His eyes narrowed.

"Jack. Now." And then realization of his vulnerable, dependent position reasserted itself… "Please?"

Marty studied his patient's face for a few minutes. "You haven't even tried to look at him in that monitor that's all set up for you, Aaron. Why not?"

Hotch could feel his eyes beginning to brim. He reminded himself of the doctor's explanation of emotional instability when one was seriously ill. But he still hated the tear that spilled over. "Need to hold…Jack." Each word hurt his increasingly raw throat.

Now both older men were subjecting Hotch to intense scrutiny. Rossi was the one to hit the nerve he was trying so hard to hide.

"Did you have a bad dream, Aaron?"

He couldn't explain. Literally. Talking hurt too much. He would have felt foolish anyway, trying to make these seasoned experts in human nature understand that it hadn't been a normal dream. It had felt like a place and a situation that embodied very real consequences. It was too much for one sick, worried man to handle.

All Aaron could do was look miserable and nod.

Marty closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over his weary face. He glanced at Rossi, then back to Hotch. "If we bring you Jack, will you settle down? Let us look after you without feeling that you're imposing on anyone?" Hotch nodded, a small gleam of hope coming into his eyes.

"And you'll be willing to let us conduct a little intervention of sorts?"

A touch of alarm joined the gleam of hope. But Hotch nodded again. Anything for Jack.

Marty placed a hand on his patient's shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze; almost an apology for what had just transpired, and could qualify as emotional blackmail.

"Alright, son. Dave, would you be kind enough to get Jack? _If_ he's awake?"

xxxxxx

Down the hall, Jack had dozed off under the immobility imposed by his two, large, furry companions.

When the deal had been struck; when Hotch had agreed to subject himself to whatever was meant by 'intervention,' and Rossi was on his way, Mudgie lumbered to his feet, freeing the pup and awakening him.

As Rossi entered the room, Mudge and Fudge jostled their way out, continuing down the hallway, trotting in tandem, tails proudly upright. Rossi spared an amused glance for the pair. They looked for all the world as though they'd just completed a successful business transaction.


	34. The Parent Puzzle

While Rossi went to get Jack, the doctor helped Hotch to the bathroom, noting his patient's weak, but determined progress.

_That bout with fever took a lot out of him. I'm betting all the attendant ills associated with measles took the opportunity to come home to roost with renewed vigor._

Marty kept quiet, but enumerated the maladies in his own mind. _Strep throat. Ear ache. Muscle aches. Fatigue._ He sighed, watching Hotch struggle to attend to his own personal hygiene. _And I bet he won't complain; will even deny his symptoms. Hiding when there's no need. Hiding because it's his first response, ingrained by an uncertain, cruel childhood. And it seems adulthood hasn't been much kinder._

xxxxxxxxx

Hotch ran out of energy quickly. He'd only wanted to clean up a little; didn't want to present too frightening an aspect to Jack. The rash was okay. It was their passport to brotherhood; the entrée into being a Raspberry Leopard. It was the rest that bothered him.

Although he'd tried to avoid looking in the mirror…ever since the dreams had claimed him, he dreaded what might appear over the shoulder of his own reflection…the quick glance he'd taken showed him a gaunt, attenuated face. Like a famished spectre. Not the impression he wanted to give a child who, if the dreams could be believed, blamed himself for Daddy's illness.

And that was the first thing he needed to determine. _Was_ it just a dream? Would Jack have any recollection? Hotch was torn. A little proof would go a long way to bolstering his confidence in his own mental health and perceptions. But he hated…hated with a venomous rage…that his son might have been in that cold, heartless place. And he still needed to get to the root of why the child was taking on blame.

_Who told him that?_

As he did his best to shave with a shaking hand, he came to the reluctant conclusion that the culprit had to be either Dave or Marty. In which case he was sure it hadn't been intentional. More likely a stray comment meant for adult ears and misinterpreted by Jack's.

_Probably said I caught it from him, or something about how when you have kids, you're exposed to more germs._

Hotch finished shaving and leaned against the sink. It had taken all the energy he could spare, but it was worth it. He was usually a very fastidious man, taking his grooming seriously. Even if he looked a bit skeletal, being clean-shaven made him feel better; more in control.

A wave of dizziness washed over him. Hanging his head, he closed his eyes, mutely waiting for it to pass. When the hand reached around from behind him, pressing against his chest, Hotch's heart almost stopped. It was exactly like his nightmares; the hand presaging an encounter with humiliation, hate, horror. But this time the voice was kind, the touch gentle.

"Aaron, are you alright?" Marty's words were soft, full of genuine concern.

Hotch nodded, sparing his sore throat the agony of vocalizing. But the doctor's hand had felt the sudden increase in heart rate. He gave his patient a moment to gather himself before continuing.

"Jack'll be here any minute. Let's get you back to bed." Again Hotch nodded, hoping his lapse into momentary terror hadn't been noticed. It was a vain hope. The doctor's arm circled Hotch's waist, supporting without being too intrusive. He understood a patient's need to maintain dignity, the illusion of accepting rather than needing help. Matching his pace to the agent's, Marty accompanied Hotch to his bed. Halfway there, the doctor spoke up.

"You know, Aaron, you can talk to me about anything. I've been around a lot longer than you have. And, although I know you've seen more than your share, there's nothing you can tell me that'll shock me." He glanced at the serious face, studiously keeping its eyes trained on the floor, marking each step. "Nothing'll shock me, son….Not even your dreams."

He felt the falter in Hotch's step. _Thought so. Those nightmares Dave witnessed; they're not just from fever. They're subconscious issues working their way to the surface. We'll have to add them to our agenda: Things To Discuss With Aaron._

At the bed, Marty took hold of Hotch's waist, his thumbs resting against the man's back. He'd intended to help him up, lifting ever so slightly. But when his fingers tightened, the wince of pain his patient gave couldn't be ignored.

"What was that?" Sharp, medically adroit eyes subjected Hotch's torso to professional scrutiny.

The agent shook his head, emitting a squeak that was all the voice he could produce, and looking heartily ashamed of sounding like a mouse. He tried to crawl into the bed, but Marty wouldn't let him.

"Hang on, son. After all you've been through, I'm not about to let something slip through the cracks when you're finally on the home stretch."

Shoulders drooping, Hotch stood still while the doctor's fingers probed around his spine. His compliance was more the result of resignation than willing obedience. Jack was coming. He was already concerned about his lack of vocal ability; he didn't want the boy to have the added unpleasantness of seeing his father being examined like a faulty warhorse. He willed Marty to hurry.

Finally, the doctor patted Hotch's back. "It's muscular. Nothing to worry about. 'Though I'm sure it doesn't feel like 'nothing.'" He kept his touch light as he helped the agent clamber into bed. "I think it's the combined effect of that reduced level of liquids we discussed, that makes your muscles ache and malfunction, plus too much coughing, plus just enough laughter the other day to underscore that it's not an activity you engage in with any degree of regularity."

Hotch caught the implied criticism.

It wasn't that he didn't enjoy merriment. It was that so little opportunity for it existed, as far as he was concerned, in the world in general. But one of those rare opportunities was headed his way now. He could hear Jack's piping voice in the hall, playing counterpoint to Rossi's deeper rumble.

xxxxxxx

Jack was having a hard time understanding his rapidly changing situation.

He _knew_ he was the one who'd made Daddy sick.

They'd explained at school how germs were passed from person to person. In Jack's advanced class, they'd even done experiments with petri dishes and cotton swabs that showed how a little bit of germs could grow into a whole bunch of germs. And since the measles had shown up on him first, he _knew_ he'd passed the spots and everything else to Daddy.

But then they'd let him spend almost a whole day with his father. It had been so much fun, he'd almost wished they could be sick together forever. And when Daddy had done the leopard roar, initiating him into their very own, special tribe, he'd been so proud and his heart had swelled with so much love, it almost hurt.

That had felt like a reward. It didn't make any sense to be given such a gift in exchange for making his father ill.

That's why, when he realized his Bat-Monitor had been taken away, he figured they must have remembered what a bad thing he'd done. The reward had been a mistake. To make up for it, they'd taken away his ability to see Daddy. He'd been left in a dark, lonely room. Mudgie was there. But no Daddy. No Spotted Raspberry Leopard Chief. Not even his image.

Jack didn't object. He knew he deserved the punishment. The other had been a mistake.

But now Poppi was taking him to _see _Daddy…to _be_ with him…to be able to touch him and cuddle him again. It didn't make any sense. But caught up in the bubbling, elated joy…the expectation of being able to bury himself in the wonderful, strong, beautiful, perfect man who was his father made it impossible for Jack's brain to follow any trail of logic.

But Jack Hotchner knew one thing: he wasn't going to alert them to the fact that it must be another mistake; that he knew they were worried about Daddy and it was all because he'd made beautiful, perfect, Chief Leopard Daddy sick.

No. Jack was going to keep it to himself and hope no one noticed. And even if he didn't deserve it, he was going to store up every scent and touch and sight and sound, and build his own image of Daddy since they'd taken away the Bat-one. He'd work at it.

Because when you did bad things, even if you didn't mean to; even if they just happened, because that's the kind of boy you are…somebody might realize how awful you really were. And then you might never get to see your Daddy again.

After all, that's what had happened with Mommy.


	35. Operation Unstick the Hamster Wheel

Rossi didn't make it to the bed with Jack in his arms.

Several feet away from their destination, the child couldn't stand it anymore. He saw Daddy reaching toward him and, launching himself from Rossi's hip…

…was caught in the strong, safe arms he adored.

Hotch's voice had already deserted him, falling prey to laryngitis, but even if that hadn't been the case, he would have had no words for the moment. Everything worth fighting for, worth living for, was embodied in his son; the one thing Hotch felt he'd gotten right in his whole sorry existence.

_Sorry._

It reminded him of the dream-place, of Jack taking undeserved blame to himself. And of the white-hot rage that had propelled Hotch back so he could rend and tear whoever had put such unworthy thoughts in his son's mind. But the tremendous power of anger in that place of smoke and mirrors didn't translate once he was back in the waking world. The boundless strength he'd felt, the Papa-wolf alter-ego that made him dangerous and confrontational…faded…diminished to human proportions in the realm of ordinary reality.

Hotch felt impotent, weak. He clutched his son to himself and mourned his inability to carry the perceived power he'd had from one world into the other.

_Sorry, son…sorry. I should protect you better._

So Hotch did what he could.

He lifted his head from nuzzling Jack's hair and glared indiscriminately around at the two older men. He couldn't believe they'd say or do anything to harm his son. Whatever occurred…if _anything_ occurred; he was still mindful that this might all have been a dream…must have been unintentional. Nevertheless, the issue must be addressed.

Watching the Hotchner reunion with fond expressions, Dave and Marty saw the incipient anger deep in Aaron's eyes. They exchanged baffled looks.

"You do something to tick him off?" The only change Rossi could see since he'd gone to fetch Jack, was that Hotch had shaved. On the face of it, not cause for the irate expression the man was showing them.

Marty shook his head. "No…not that I know of." He scratched his chin, running over the brief events of the day so far. "No. Nothing. Maybe he wants us to leave…give them some private time?"

Caught up in the bliss of hugging Daddy, unaware of the emotional currents eddying around him, Jack pulled back, the better to see his father's face.

"Raspberry Leopard, Daddy! Do it! Do the Leopard roar!"

Distracted from delivering the only reprimand of which he was currently capable, Hotch bent his neck, looking down at the hopeful grin and shining eyes of his son. He gathered himself for the effort, tensing his diaphragm, lengthening his spine in anticipation of making a mighty sound.

It was difficult to gage who was more disappointed, father or child, when all that came out was a squeak. Granted, a baritone squeak, but it was not the sound of a Leopard Chief. More that of something the Leopards would stalk and disable with a single swipe of their Raspberry paws.

Rossi felt his impulse to laugh was inappropriate. He covered his smile with one hand. Marty disguised the same reaction by bending down and rummaging about in his black bag. When he straightened, he was once again the consummate, the serious, medical professional.

"Here, Aaron. Try some of this." In the doctor's extended hand was a bottle of Chloraseptic spray. "It won't give you your voice back, but it should help with the pain." His expression was regretful. "The only way to get the voice back is to stop trying to use it, I'm afraid. Give the vocal cords a chance to rest."

Hotch's arms were busy holding his son close. It was Jack who reached out to accept the doctor's offering. With the dignity and skepticism of a seasoned elder, the boy inspected the label, overflowing with words beyond his five-year-old vocabulary.

"This'll help Daddy?"

Marty nodded, trying to match the gravity of the child's tone. "With the pain. But he needs rest, too. And he needs to eat." He continued, hoping to ease some of the disappointment due to the failure to roar. "He won't be able to talk for a little while, but you can stay with him for now and help him feel better."

Jack nodded, fingering the bottle's spray mechanism that was too big for his small hands.

"Okay." He turned mournful eyes on Poppi and Dr. Palmer. "My fault Daddy's sick."

It was just as disturbing as the first time they'd heard it.

What was so much worse this time was the smoldering rage in Hotch's eyes as he stared at the older men in mute accusation.

xxxxxxx

Rossi was the first to click to the inner workings of his Unit Chief's mind.

"Oh, God." He spoke _sotto voce_ for Marty's ear only. "He thinks we told Jack, or said something to make him think that all this…the measles...all of it…is his fault."

The doctor's head snapped up, returning Hotch's glare with a sharp, piercing look of his own. "Is that right, son? You think this child takes his cues from _us_?"

Hotch continued to glower, pulling Jack in tighter, closer, daring anyone to inflict harm on the son in the presence of the father.

Stepping forward, Marty gave a deep, frustrated sigh. "Jack…" Gentle fingers under his chin raised the boy's eyes upward. "Jack…you didn't make your Daddy sick. I'm a doctor. I know these things better than anyone." He could see the desire to believe shimmering deep within the pools of dark brown. "A mean, old virus made both you and your Daddy sick." His glance flashed up at Hotch. "And I'm beginning to think it went after the two of you together because you both need time to talk and figure some things out."

He released Jack's chin, taking hold of Hotch's in a slightly rougher grip. "Aaron, I took an oath when I became a doctor. I've spent a lifetime helping wherever I could, as much as I could. And I've never, ever wished suffering on anyone." He narrowed his eyes to match the somewhat fading glare of his patient's. "But right now I'm glad you lost your voice. You need to listen, and you need to hear."

Shaking his head, Marty moved back a few paces, taking in the picture presented by man and child. Both Hotchners were huddled close. Partly in reaction to the unaccustomed severity of the doctor's words. Partly because they just couldn't get enough of each other.

_Anger, guilt, fault, blame…_Marty's perceptive eyes were experienced in the reading of the human animal, rivaling even a profiler's skill. His lips thinned, then gradually relaxed. _But there's so much love here…an almost desperate amount. Maybe…just maybe…it's enough. Maybe…just maybe…they can use it to resolve all their issues._

Rossi had been watching from the sidelines, alternating between wanting to step in and comfort Aaron, and wanting to shake him until what he envisioned as the little hamster wheel inside his friend's stubborn head unstuck itself, allowing him to see what was so glaringly obvious to everyone else.

But he refrained from either impulse, opting for a more practical activity. "I'm going downstairs to put together some food for these two." He headed toward the door, pausing outside to hear Marty's final words.

"Jack, the other day I told you that you could stay with you father as long as you kept him eating and drinking, remember?" After the requisite head-nod of acknowledgment, the doctor continued. "The rules are the same today…with one little addition." Both sets of dark, Hotchner eyes were studying him, curious about the new condition of their staying together. "Today, I want you to talk to him. About everything. I want you to think of feelings. Tell him what you love the most, hate the most; what scares you the most; what makes you angry the most; what you wish you could change the most; what you want the most.

"And don't hold back. Even if you think it'll make him sad. I guarantee you, Jack, it's the medicine both of you need most. Promise?"

" 'Kay." The boy looked uncertain, but Marty had a feeling Hotchners, no matter how small, kept their promises.

He ruffled the child's hair with an affectionate hand. After a moments consideration, he ruffled Hotch's, too.


	36. Fox Hunt

As Marty's and Rossi's footsteps retreated down the hall, Hotch couldn't help his spreading grin. He beamed down at the boy in his arms, still holding the bottle of spray the doctor had given him. Jack's smile lit up his face in turn, growing just as Hotch's own widened, keeping pace with Daddy.

Alone, father and son stared at each other, searching for answers to the same question…_Are you alright? Really alright?_

Hotch knew he wasn't picking up on things as quickly as he would under normal circumstances. Illness was affecting his grasp of things logical versus things dreamed, and things feverish. But Marty's diatribe echoed in his mind. Especially one line: '_You think this child takes his cues from __**us**__?'_

It was hard to focus. All he wanted to do with Jack so close was revel in his son's presence. But as he watched his own smile, his own expressions mirrored, mimicked, on the worshipful face turned up to him, Hotch began to wonder…

xxxxxx

Down in the kitchen, Rossi was shaking his head in appreciative awe as he studied Garcia's schematic for the provisions she'd left. Consulting the printout was something he did more frequently than necessary. It dumbfounded him that she had gone to so much trouble on his and the Hotchners behalves.

Not only was everything five-star-gourmet quality, but she'd divined exactly what would appeal to the appetites involved. Her food was age appropriate, as well as stage-of-recovery appropriate.

He glanced to where Marty was crouched down, rubbing Fudge's belly as Mudgie looked on, emitting a wistful, jealous whine every third rub or so.

"How do grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup sound to you, Marty?"

The doctor finished with Fudge and gave Mudge's head a conciliatory pat, groaning as he straightened up. "Sounds good. I kind of liked that when I was a kid and got sick. Comfort food."

"Ahhhhh…but this is _more_ than the sandwiches of your memory. So much more."

Marty grinned, waiting for elaboration. Garcia's gifts had been a source of humor and amazement that helped leaven the otherwise dour, sickroom atmosphere. He raised his brows at Rossi, inviting explanation. Rossi obliged.

"There are two containers with grilled cheese sandwiches. For adults, she made Texas toast and used a combination of Havarti, Muenster, and Gruyere."

"My God." The doctor placed a hand on his chest. "I can feel my left ventricle slamming closed just thinking about it…but…ohhhhh…what a way to go…"

"She used regular toast and sliced American cheese for the kiddy version. And…" Rossi's lips quirked up at one side. "…the cream of tomato soup for us older folks includes onions, basil and garlic. Just pureed, creamed tomatoes for the youngsters." He tilted his head to one side, again surveying the diagram. "And she arranged everything so those are pretty easy to get to. We only have to dig back one layer. She kept most of the sweets up front."

Rossi opened the fridge, checking the chart, getting his bearings before disturbing any of the Wall of Food before him. Marty joined him, paying homage to the culinary feat of engineering.

"You know, we should take that young lady to the finest dinner your money can buy when this is over."

"_My_ money…" Rossi shot a sidelong glance at his friend.

"Well, I'm just a simple, country doctor. You're the famous author and man of intrigue."

The agent chuckled, but a considering look came over him as he extracted the electric blue Tupperware labeled GRILLED CHEESE - KIDS!

"What are you thinking, Dave?" Marty glimpsed the fleeting sparkle in his friend's eyes as he explored the cupboards for bowls and plates.

"That we _should_ take Penelope out." Rossi's smile grew sly. "And I _can_ afford the best. Wha'd'ya say to splitting the bill for a fine Italian meal, if I spring for the transportation?"

The doctor frowned. "Transportation?"

"Well…the finest dinner my money can buy would be a little place I know on a side street of a lovely village…" He couldn't reign in his grin any more. "…in Tuscany."

Silence. A frozen stare from his old war buddy.

"You're serious."

Rossi nodded, warming to the concept. "Yeah. A long weekend. A flight on Alitalia out of New York." He turned a mischievous grin on his co-conspirator. "She'll never know what hit her."

xxxxxxx

Hotch had relieved Jack of the bottle of Chloraseptic. He'd sniffed at it, but his nose was still too congested to tell him much. His first inclination was to avoid painkillers, so he deposited it on the nightstand without using it. Jack watched every move, sniff, and grimace.

_Damn. He __**is**__ watching me like a hawk._ A frisson of resentment passed through Hotch. He couldn't tell if the doctor's words were making him hyper-aware, or if his son really was studying him for clues and cues. It was impacting his pure enjoyment of the boy's company.

He wished he could talk. There were so many things he wanted to ask; so much he wanted to explain. But his attempt once again resulted in an abortive non-Leopard squeak.

Frustrated, Hotch leaned back against the mound of pillows, pulling Jack tighter against his chest. Closing his eyes, he buried his nose in the boy's hair, trying to circumvent the congestion and breathe in the scent that eased his heart and made everything else in the world of lesser importance.

xxxxxxx

Upon Rossi's advice, it was decided to include Hotch in Garcia's menu for –KIDS! At the best of times, the Unit Chief's stomach was sensitive. The more sophisticated ingredients in the adult versions of grilled cheese and soup might be more irritating than savory.

When the tray had been prepared with additional snacks intended to tempt a flagging appetite, the two old friends paused, glancing toward the staircase and then to each other.

"Jack's only five. You think he can follow through on his own? Talk to Aaron the way you told him to?"

Marty's eyes dropped as he gave some serious consideration to the likelihood of a child who idolized his father, stepping out of his comfort zone to address very adult concerns. He shook his head.

"He means well. And I have a feeling those two regard promises as near-sacred trusts…but…" He sighed. "No. I don't think the boy'll be able to stay on track. Especially if he sees it's hurting his Daddy."

"Maybe one of us should…facilitate?" Rossi saw the doctor come to the same conclusion he already had.

"Yeah." Marty grinned. "I guess I'm already the 'bad cop,' so it'll have to be you. You know them better than I do anyway." He looked over to where Mudge and Fudge were watching the tray with intently hopeful eyes. "I'll just take the dogs for a walk…have a look at this ritzy neighborhood you managed to worm you way into."

Rossi nodded, picking up the heavily laden tray. "Well, take your phone. They see someone as disreputable looking as you wandering the streets, the cops might show up. I'd hate to have to make bail for you. Just really hate to. Waste of money." A gusty sigh punctuated the regret for funds misspent.

Marty nodded, emitting his own dramatic sigh for the injustice of an unappreciative world that valued authors over broken-down doctors. But as Rossi backed his way out of the kitchen, taking care not to slosh tomato soup, the doctor's voice turned serious.

"Dave, don't go easy on him. You know his tactics; how he hides. Don't let him."

Rossi paused, unsmiling. "I know. Believe me, Marty…I know." His eyes met his friend's with unguarded honesty. "I don't know where this might lead, but I think it's been a long time coming. If I have to, I'll make up some unbreakable, Leopard Tribe oath and invoke it." He pushed the rest of the way past the door. "Or maybe I'll just sit on him. Squash him into submission."

Marty could hear Rossi continue as he made his way upstairs, almost talking to himself. "Need to check in with the team. Could get Morgan to squash him, too. And Prentiss. Yeah. That'd do it. A team-squash."

Marty smiled as he snapped leashes on two dogs eager to be taken out. He had a feeling an old dog was about to pull the fox from his burrow and expose him to daylight.

He almost felt sorry for the fox.


	37. Words As Keen As Blades

Rossi thought he detected a flicker of relief in Hotch's eyes when the person delivering their meal wasn't Marty. The gruff, old doctor had touched a nerve. Seeing Rossi, Hotch looked as though he thought he was getting away with something. There was a smug, triumphant air about him.

_Fox is feeling safe in his burrow again._

The older agent hid his amusement. As much as he loved Aaron, he wasn't going to go soft and let him sneak his way around what was coming. He also realized he'd be walking a fine line. One that went hard on Hotch, but took into account the presence of his son. Rossi decided he was glad the man had no voice. There would be no arguing, no overt conflict. It would be more conducive to the child expressing himself honestly, without reservation.

His strategy was to go gently at first. Lead Jack. Let the boy open up and hope an echoing openness would show itself in Aaron.

Rossi set the tray down on a dresser and glanced at the Hotchners, big and little. "Okay, you two. Time to eat, so un-snuggle and let's get you set up." He had decided it would be best to get some food into the Unit Chief before confrontation bathed his stomach in acid, robbing him of his appetite. The man had a gaunt, attenuated look that wouldn't go away without some solid weight gain. Every meal they managed to get into him was a small victory.

Jack bounced to the side of the large bed. The nightstand would serve as his table. The only item that needed stability was the bowl of tomato soup. Rossi settled the child with soup at the ready and a sandwich in hand. He unloaded the tray's extra snacks and positioned it across the blanket over Hotch's thighs, leaving two sandwiches and the soup on it.

"You two know the rules." He gave Jack a mock-severe look. "Daddy has to eat as much as he can. Then I'll help you talk to him…" He couldn't refrain from casting a sympathetic look Hotch's way. "… 'cause he needs some help talking right now. Got it?"

Jack nodded with blissful enthusiasm, happy to be in Daddy's company, no matter what the conditions. Rossi was pleased to see Hotch's expression was relaxed and happy, too. He put a spoon into the man's hand. "Eat up, Aaron. Set your son a good example."

He touched the lean cheek with a fatherly gesture of affection before backing off. The dark eyes flicked up, making the older agent wonder if Hotch suspected what was coming. But it was only for a second. Then he was concentrating on his meal.

Rossi had opted to wait for his lunch, planning to sit down with Marty later and go over the particulars of this intervention. He sat back and watched, wondering where the day would end, hoping it would provide healing knowledge, rather than wounds.

xxxxxxx

"So, Jack…" Rossi had cleared utensils and dishes off to the top of a dresser. It was time for the real work to start.

"Poppi!" The boy had bounced back to cuddle up against Hotch's side. Happiness was an almost palpable quality cascading off him. Both adults couldn't help grinning in response.

Rossi drew a chair closer to the bed. Leaning forward, he smiled at Jack. "Dr. Palmer wanted you to talk to Daddy. He's away so much, this is kind of a gift to have him here." He glanced up at Hotch, seeing adoration glowing in the man's eyes. "This is a perfect opportunity for you to let him in on all the things you've been saving up, but maybe sometimes forget to tell him?"

" 'Kay." A shadow had passed over the ebullient joy. Rossi couldn't tell if it was because the boy didn't understand what sorts of things he was supposed to talk about, or if he understood _too_ well and wasn't looking forward to revealing some of his thoughts.

_That's not good. He's too young to have started thinking about hiding things, keeping secrets._ Rossi swallowed. _Oh, God, Aaron. For a man who keeps everything locked inside, your son has already picked up on too much._

"Dr. Palmer asked you to talk about the things you feel most, Jack. The big things that make you most happy and maybe make you most sad. So let's start with the good stuff." Rossi beamed an encouraging smile at the child. "What makes you happier than happy? What do you really, truly love?"

"Daddy!" Hotch's son pushed himself upward, using his father's body to climb high enough to throw his arms around the man's neck. The maneuver earned a reciprocal hug and a noisy, snuffling nuzzle from Hotch. Without words, he made it clear he returned the sentiment a hundredfold.

Rossi nodded. "Your Daddy's a wonderful, brave, good man. I love him, too." He felt Hotch's eyes on him, but he didn't want to break the connection with Jack. He wanted the boy to feel accepted and supported even when talking about the not-so-nice things. And he wanted to bring them up with Daddy at the forefront of Jack's mind. His voice softened, inviting confidences, creating a safe place to reveal whatever darkness might linger in a five-year-old's soul.

"What makes you sad, Jack? What bothers you that you wish was different?" He could feel a change in Hotch's regard; a bristling quality. The fox wasn't pleased that his cub was being subjected to the profiler's interrogation tactics geared toward children. Rossi ignored him, keeping his compassionate gaze focused on Jack.

"When I'm bad."

Hotch's arms tightened around his son.

Rossi swallowed. "When do you think you're bad?"

"When I make Daddy sad."

Hotch abandoned all pretense of relaxation. He sat straighter, turning his son around to face him. Words weren't necessary; the man's face expressed shocked denial. Rossi didn't need to intervene. Jack was so adept at reading his father, he could interpret the voiceless attempt at communication.

"I _do_ make you sad, Daddy." The boy continued on with an adult sort of grimness that sent a shiver of concern up Rossi's spine.

Hotch shook his head. Crushing his son close, he closed his eyes and tried to bring his suddenly ragged respiration under control.

"Jack…Jack…" Rossi stood up. Reaching over, he pried Hotch's son away from him. "Aaron…let me. Please." The father looked up with liquid eyes, but, in a demonstration of trust and a mute plea for help, loosened his grip. Rossi pulled Jack to the edge of the bed and sat beside him, brushing his hair into place, matching his grave look.

"Jack, there's a big difference between making someone sad, and having someone love you so much it hurts. A _big_ difference." He paused to let the concept gain a foothold. "Your Daddy _does_ get sad sometimes, but it doesn't have anything to do with you. Because the hurt you get from loving someone as much as he loves you is a joyful kind of pain. He wouldn't trade it for anything."

Jack glanced back at his father's face. Hotch nodded, a desperate, pleading look confirming Rossi's explanation; begging his son to understand and accept. But Jack's demeanor didn't lighten. He turned back to his Poppi.

"Daddy's sad because Mommy's gone." The conviction in the young voice was total. No one would persuade the boy otherwise.

"Yes." Rossi saw no reason to deny it. He knew how much Hotch's heart had been invested in Haley; how he'd thought they'd be together for the rest of their lives….And that those lives would be so much longer.

"Mommy's gone because of me."

The words were so soft, but they cut into Hotch's flesh as surely as Foyet's blade once had. Only they hurt far more. Rossi stared, shocked at something he hadn't expected in this planned excursion into the Hotchner's emotional landscape. He spared a glance for Hotch, seeing the horror dark within his friend's eyes. Gathering himself, he continued down a path that, once begun, had to be followed to its conclusion.

"Jack, Jack…A bad man took your Mommy away. It had nothing to do with you. Nothing at all." The words had no impact. "Why do you think that, Jack?"

The head was bowed. Whether in shame or acceptance of guilt, Rossi couldn't tell. But neither boded well.

"Daddy said so."

Despite laryngitis, Hotch's gasp was deep, audible, choking.

Rossi put a gentle hand on the child's back. "You must have misunderstood, Jack. Your Daddy doesn't think that. He wouldn't have said that."

"He did." Hotch's son looked up, eyes full of earnest belief. "When we said goodbye to Mommy."

Hotch's mind cast back to Haley's funeral with frantic, panicked speed. He didn't recall his exact words. He'd been working from notecards. But he _did_ know that he'd said Haley wasn't with them anymore because of her fierce, joyous love for Jack. The connection flared into his mind, and into his gut, wrenching a sob from him.

While Rossi watched in stunned denial, Jack clambered back to his father's side. As Hotch tried to smother a second sob, his stomach muscles contracted. Unconsciously, his hand traveled up his side to his ribs, where the movement made them ache. But Jack had beat him to it.

He glanced down at the small hand of his son, resting gently over the precise point of damage. Hotch looked into the younger version of his own eyes, regarding him with the calm acceptance of the condemned who feel they deserve their sentence.

Jack patted his father.

" 'S'okay, Daddy. I know where you hurt."


	38. Pushing Back the Darkness

Marty walked the dogs, returning to Rossi's mansion to find his host and the Hotchners still in session.

He debated diving into the delectable –ADULTS! grilled cheese sandwiches Garcia had provided, but thought he'd rather wait and eat with Dave. After idling about downstairs, he decided he'd make an unobtrusive way up to his room, hoping to retrieve a sweater in deference to the day's temperature having taken a dive toward the cooler side.

Marty intended to get past Hotch's bedroom door without attracting any notice. To that end, he walked with soft, furtive steps. He needn't have bothered. The occupants of the room were so deeply entrenched in a situation, the intensity of which could be felt all the way out to the hallway, they wouldn't have noticed a pack of elephants wearing spurs, doing a two-step on their way past.

Marty paused; curious, yet loathe to interrupt. Unable to hear distinct words, he continued to his room. But once there, his eye fell on the monitor he'd taken from Jack, intending to shield the boy from his father's rough road through illness. He toyed with the idea of eavesdropping via Bat-Cam, weighing the possible merits versus the definite lack of ethics in doing so.

Lips thinned, the doctor rested his hand on the monitor's rim. He'd turned the video and sound off, but…_All it would take is the flip of a switch…maybe a little volume adjustment…and maybe the camera isn't even focused in the right direction anymore…_

But what finally decided him was…_Things felt tense…maybe they need help…_He gave himself a wry, little shake of his head. _Yeah, yeah…and it'll shorten the war by years and save countless lives. Be honest: it's just an excuse to be a nosy, old man._

Marty flipped on the monitor and turned up the sound.

All he could see was a blurry, too-close image of a plate with a bit of what looked like melted cheese spotting the edge. But he could hear well enough.

xxxxx

Jack patted his father's ribs with the same delicacy he would those of a baby bird. Feather-light and gentle was his touch. And it lanced clear through to Hotch's heart.

"I know you hurt, Daddy. I know."

Straining to find his voice, Hotch could only produce a strangled, creaking noise. He turned tortured eyes on Rossi, pleading for him to take this darkness away from his son. It burned into him that Jack's actions and words, so full of self-recrimination, were directly traceable to his own.

He'd labored over the eulogy for Haley, struggling to verbalize through the obstacle of his own broken grief. He'd thought the words he'd chosen were deep and true, reflecting the love she'd brought into his life, the love that manifested itself in Jack. He'd meant to pay homage to a love that was almost frightening in its intensity; not attribute blame.

_Is this something __**else**__ Foyet's going to steal from me? My son's capacity for joy?_

Hotch was startled out of his reverie by Rossi's hand covering Jack's; both of them warming his chronically injured side. He glanced up to see the older agent studying him, reading him with the disconcerting accuracy of a professional as well as a friend. Dave maintained eye contact, but he spoke for Jack's benefit.

"Yes. Your Daddy does hurt. In different ways, for different injuries." Rossi increased the pressure of his hand over the boy's, flattening it, letting him feel the rhythm of his father's breathing.

"_This_ injury needs warmth and time, and to be left alone, for it to feel better." He twined his fingers through Jack's, pulling his hand away from the sore spot. "It'll probably be with Daddy for the rest of his life." Jack looked up into his Poppi's eyes with concern.

"It won't go away?"

Rossi returned the child's grave regard, shaking his head. "Probably not. But that's okay. It's not a big hurt. Your Daddy's brave and strong, and he knows how to ignore the little hurts like this."

Jack looked to his father for confirmation. Hotch nodded and then shrugged, hoping to show his son that such things really didn't matter. That he was big and tough, and not to be worried over. But he was curious to know where Rossi was going with this line of reasoning. He wouldn't have told Jack there was _any_ injury that might last forever.

Rossi mimicked Hotch's shrug, accompanying the gesture with a slight smile. "As we go through life, we pick up little hurts like that along the way." He gave Hotch's side a reassuring rub, then gripped Jack's shoulder, claiming the boy's full attention. "Those are the hurts that don't really matter. It's the _big_ ones, like losing your Mommy, that are a lot more important."

Hotch ground his teeth in mute frustration, reaching to grab Rossi's upper arm. _What are you thinking?! You're making him feel even worse about something he's already taking the blame for!_

With a firm touch, Rossi disengaged Hotch's fingers. Putting his friend's arm back in place, he glanced at the worried eyes. He gave Hotch's chest a comforting pat before returning to Jack. _Trust me, Aaron. Let me do this for you._

"The hurt of losing your Mommy really only has one thing that'll make it feel better…only one thing that'll make the pain less and make it something Daddy can live with day to day. Only this cure doesn't just take the pain and make it bearable; it goes way past the pain and brings him so much happiness that eventually it pushes all the hurt away into a dark, little corner. It outlasts and it outshines all that awful, terrible pain."

Jack looked at Rossi with imploring eyes. "Can we get it for him? So he'll feel better?"

Rossi nodded, biting his lower lip and squinting his eyes as though weighing the chances of being able to obtain this magical, marvelous cure. "I think so. I think so." He pulled back a little, looking Jack up and down. "But you'll have to come with me."

The child nodded vigorously, anxious to do it _now_, do it _fast_. So Daddy could begin to feel better right away.

"Okay then." Rossi took Jack's hand and stood, making the boy jump down from the bed, landing on the floor with the thud of bare feet. "C'mon."

"Bye, Daddy!" Hotch's son tossed the words over his shoulder, eager to embark upon his quest for his father's happiness.

Hotch watched with anxious eyes, puzzled by the whole charade, wondering if being a little woozy was making him dense to Dave's intentions. When the two began walking away from the bed, hand in hand, Hotch couldn't keep still anymore. He threw back the covers, swinging his legs over the side, determined to follow his son.

But they reached their destination before Hotch's feet hit the floor.

Rossi stopped before the huge oval mirror hinged to the top of the dresser. Lifting Jack up, he held him where he could see his own reflection, front and center. Hotch froze, intent on his son's reaction to the ploy his own adult mind now understood.

"There ya go. That's it." Dave's tone left no room for doubt.

"Poppi?" Grown-ups could be puzzling creatures. And mirrors could be magic. Like with Alice and that tricky, white rabbit. Jack was uncertain if he was seeing the same things Poppi was.

"That's it, Jack." Rossi's voice was soft and sure. "Right there in the middle. It's you. You're what pushes all the sadness and pain back into a corner so small, your Daddy can walk right past it." Their eyes met in the silvered surface.

"Every time you smile. Every time you're truly happy inside, it pushes Daddy's pain further and further away." Rossi rested his chin on top of the boy's head, still gazing into his reflected eyes. "That's why you have to stop thinking you've done anything bad. You have to let all those sad thoughts go, so you can be happy and help Daddy get there, too." He sighed. "Understand?"

There was a pause…

…while Jack thought it over.

…while Rossi met Hotch's eyes in the mirror and saw them welling with gratitude; a small echo of a smile telling him his friend, at least, understood, even if his friend's son might not.

…while Marty listened through the monitor, willing the child to accept the illogic and magic of love.

Jack frowned, coming to a difficult spot. "But I'm why Mommy went away in the first place."

Rossi's shoulders slumped. But before he could form a reply, a whirring noise interrupted, claiming everyone's attention. Three sets of eyes turned to the Bat-Cam on the nightstand, ears erect, looking for all the world as though it was following the conversation.

_And maybe it has been_, thought Rossi. He looked at Jack, raptly watching the Bat-helmed creature.

"What d'_you_ think?" Dave addressed the Bat-Cam directly. "Is there any possible way Jack played any part in his Mommy going away?"

The camera turned it's dark lens around, studying the boy. After a moment, it whirred its answer, swiveling from side to side, shaking its head. _No._

Jack seemed fascinated, but Rossi wanted to make sure; to drive the point home. He picked Jack up, bringing him back to Hotch…and, coincidentally, the Bat-Cam.

"You didn't make your Daddy sick, Jack. Germs did. And you didn't make the germs. They were around long before you were born. And you didn't make your Mommy go away. A bad man did. And he was around long before you were, too." Rossi touched Jack's chin, making him look up. "You wouldn't take credit if one of your friends at school made a really cool clay sculpture, or drew a really good picture, would you?"

Jack blinked, then shook his head.

"Well then stop trying to take credit for what germs and bad guys do. It's the same thing. Got it?" Rossi shot a sidelong look at the Bat-Cam. "You think he should stop doing that, too? Taking credit for stuff he didn't do?"

Off in his bedroom, Marty made the camera scan up, then down, repeatedly…Bat-Cam was nodding.

The sound of a childish giggle coming through the wall was one of the sweetest things he'd ever heard.


	39. Leader by Example

Jack was able to grasp how wrong it was to take credit for other people's work. He'd just never applied the principle to the bad things as well as the good. Nor had he thought of something like measles being the labor of germs who might resent responsibility for their efforts being stolen by some undeserving, young usurper.

It gave him something to think about. He cuddled up to Daddy, the look of contemplation on his small face clearly showing he was turning the concept over, examining it from all sides.

Relieved that the crisis had passed, Hotch let himself relax. The tension of being a mute audience while his son was given the tools to work out the sticky problem of misplaced guilt, had drained him. He was content to lie back and close his eyes for a few minutes.

When Jack and Rossi began playing a game that consisted of asking the Bat-Cam 'yes' and 'no' questions about its Bat-Purpose and Bat-Life, Hotch expelled a deep, ragged breath and let himself drift.

xxxxxxx

Rossi cast surreptitious glances at Hotch while he and Jack questioned the Bat-Cam. When the man's chest took on a slow, even rhythm, Rossi hustled the child off to his own bed for a nap, telling him he could return later. He still wanted Hotch to log some solid, undisturbed sleep time.

With both Hotchners resting, Marty and Rossi adjourned to their chairs in the den to enjoy the adult version of Garcia's grilled cheese and tomato soup. After hunger's edge had been blunted, they discussed the events of the day so far.

"How much did you get to hear?" Rossi was pleased he wouldn't have to recount the entire episode in detail. Marty would have been present except his gruff words earlier might have put Hotch on his guard too much. Plus, they hadn't wanted Hotch to feel as though they were ganging up on him.

That would come later.

"Pretty much all, I think. I came in where you were taking Jack to find the miracle cure for what ails his Daddy." The doctor grinned in remembrance. "Not bad. Not bad. You got the point across about how important being happy, not just being good is. And equating blame with its flip side, credit…I think that might have gotten through to the child. Maybe the father, too."

"Yeah…the father." Rossi sighed. "Do you agree that the next step is hammering into Aaron that he can't just pay lip service? That he has to actually _be_ the change he wants to see in his son?" He shook his head. "I've gone over this in different ways with that man over the years. Every time we do this same dance, I think I've gotten through and we can move on past whatever his mental roadblock is. But then time'll go by and he always backslides. Sometimes I want to smack him around a little." Rossi shifted position, easing joints that were beginning to feel their age. "Or have the team do it for me. Morgan and Prentiss could do it. If they didn't respect him too much. And if they didn't like their jobs too much to risk getting canned for slapping their boss' ears back."

"The team…." Marty let his eyes go distant, mulling over what he'd learned of the diverse personalities that meshed into that oddly cohesive unit. "You might be onto something there, Dave." He settled more deeply into his chair. "Tell me about the team and Aaron. Tell me some of their past. Both before and after you joined them, if you can."

So the two, old friends spent the next few hours exchanging accounts that might have been tall tales if they hadn't been so sadly grim.

When they were finished, it had been decided: Dave and Marty would take their own shot at Hotch, but afterwards the Education of Aaron Hotchner would be declared a team sport.

xxxxxxx

Hotch was awakened by a tickling deep within his ear.

He brushed at it, opening his eyes…and immediately felt hemmed in. Rossi sat on one side; Marty on the other. The sensation in his ear was attributable to the doctor taking another temperature reading. While Hotch pulled himself up to a sitting position, which felt less confined, the doctor peered at the digital reading on the thermometer.

"Hmmm…" He gave the requisite physician's hum. "Well, it hasn't gone up. Holding steady at 102." He subjected Hotch to a speculative look. "How do you feel, son?"

The Unit Chief opened his mouth and emitted a low creaking noise. But this time there were definite syllables involved. Despite Hotch's squeak of frustration, it _was_ progress.

Marty smiled, resting a hand on his patient's shoulder. "Go easy, Aaron. Try not to talk; we'll bring you some hot tea…" He met Rossi's eyes in confirmation. "…and you'll probably get your voice back sometime tomorrow."

Hotch nodded.

The two older men exchanged faint smiles, more affectionate than humorous.

"In the meantime…" Rossi put his hand on Aaron's other shoulder. "…let's have a little talk."

Hotch looked from one to the other. His eyes were fever-bright, but the older men could still detect the questions in their depths. He extended one hand, palm up, making movements with the other as though he were writing on it.

Rossi shook his head. "No. If we give you something to write with, you won't really listen. You'll be too busy formulating responses." He sighed. "This is too important and I'm starting to feel discouraged about lifting those blinders you wear whenever you look at yourself. I've tried my best, but this time I'm calling in the big guns. I'm gonna throw the whole arsenal at you, Aaron."

Hotch dropped his hands, but the quizzical look on his face was eloquent. _Blinders? Arsenal? What the hell are you talking about, Dave?_

Marty patted the shoulder under his palm. "Let's bring him that tea first." He glanced at Rossi from under his brows. "Got any chamomile? I think he's gonna need it."

xxxxxxxx

A short time later, cup in hand, Hotch cast wary looks as the two older men resumed their places at each side of his mattress; close, but not bracketing him in quite so tightly.

"Aaron, if you don't make some changes in yourself, you'll be condemning that boy of yours to a mirthless life filled with self-recrimination." Fixing his friend with a deadly serious look, Rossi's voice was sad.

A moment of shock, evidenced by slightly parted lips and rapid blinking was followed immediately by a glowering frown; a general bristling.

"Drink your tea, son." Marty patted Hotch's blanket-covered leg. "And put your hackles down. We're all here for Jack's sake."

Hotch's chest had tightened in resentment, but, denied any other physical outlet for the emotion, he caved, sipping his tea and assuming the injured air of a martyr.

"Don't misunderstand, Aaron." Rossi leaned in, earnest. "You're a wonderful father. A _magnificent_ father. But what you saw in your son today was a reflection of your own refusal to see yourself clearly."

Hotch looked torn between anger at the accusation and simply being aghast at it.

"Drink your tea, son." The doctor rubbed his patient's knee, nodding toward the cup in his hand.

"Jack's an amazing boy, but he's taking blame and burying himself in guilt…because _that's what Daddy does_! He worships you, Aaron. And, for better or worse, he's gonna copy everything about you."

This time Hotch didn't need prompting. He sipped his tea.

"Do you know why you're Unit Chief, Aaron?"

Hotch raised his head from the cup, openly questioning Rossi's shift in subject matter.

"They could have given that job to any number of people, but they chose you. Not because of your track record. Not because of your experience. They did it because you're a leader. You can't help it."

Hotch shook his head, uncertain of what he was supposed to glean from this. Marty reached out, placing his fingers beneath the cup, raising it, encouraging Hotch to drink.

"You're a man of very few words. You lead by example. You set a personal standard of integrity and bravery that inspires others to follow you." Rossi sighed. "But even so, we see you questioning yourself in the aftermath of every single case. We see you sitting by yourself on the way home, quietly tearing yourself apart; punishing yourself by thinking you could've done better."

A few beats passed. Rossi continued.

"Aaron… 'could've been better' is _not_ the same as 'not good enough.'"

Hotch looked uncomfortable. The idea that his team might have profiled him that deeply bordered on embarrassing.

Rossi's voice was gentler when he continued. "Children are amazingly perceptive, Aaron. Sometimes I think they're the best profilers of all. If we can hear that internal dialogue, Jack can, too. And he's copying it. I told him the importance of being truly happy to heal his Daddy's hurts. Now I'm telling you….You need to be kind to yourself. Otherwise, your son will grow up believing he's 'not good enough,' no matter how hard he tries. Because that's what the man he's modeling himself after believes. And like I told Jack: you can't fake it. Faking doesn't count. You have to _be_ it."

Rossi sat back. "A life of self-doubt. That'd be a hell of a legacy, Aaron. Neither of you deserves it."

Marty gave Hotch's shoulder a sympathetic pat. "Drink your tea, son."

But Jack's father didn't hear. He was letting Rossi's words sink in; testing them for weak spots that could be argued. Later. When his voice returned and he could defend himself. But it was hard. He kept coming up against his tarnished self-image; looping back to it in what he could see was a destructive circle after all. Maybe. He wasn't sure. His brows drew together in a scowl.

After a few minutes, the older men exchanged glances. Rossi tilted his head toward Hotch.

"Hamster wheel's stuck."


	40. Safe Place

Hotch seemed thoughtful for the rest of the day.

Jack came bounding in, full of energy after his nap. But Hotch was lagging behind his son in the recovery process. He couldn't keep up with the demands to play. Mostly, he held Jack close, head bowed, eyes closed, nose muffled against the boy's hair. The older men didn't know if Hotch was berating himself for having failed as a father, or reviewing their earlier discussion and, hopefully, taking it to heart in the spirit in which it had been intended.

Whatever he was experiencing, they left him alone to work through it on his own.

But after a while, when it looked as though Jack couldn't take any more quiet snuggle-time, preferring to find something more active to do, Rossi took him downstairs to play with the dogs.

Marty stayed behind with Hotch. Taking a seat on the bed, he took hold of the hem of his patient's t-shirt.

"I think I can take those bandages off your ribs for good this time. Haven't heard the deep cough for a while."

Hotch nodded, still looking a bit distracted. The doctor slipped off the shirt. Retrieving the blunted scissors from his medical bag, he began the slow task of snipping through the layers of fabric binding Hotch's torso. Every so often, he'd glance at the dark, downcast eyes, trained on some internal landscape.

"I hope you're not using what we talked about in exactly the pattern we're trying to break you out of, son." There was no eye contact, but the distant look had fled. _He's listening…but not engaging. Bet it's one of those things he does to hide, like Dave said._

"You know…" He was halfway through the dressing. "…I do understand, Aaron. Having a skewed vision of yourself because of a difficult past isn't so different from having an infection." The eyes shifted, but still didn't look up. "The medication that addresses the problem begins to work. Things start to look better. And that's usually when the healing process is at its most vulnerable."

With more than gentle care, Marty made the last cut, spreading the bandages apart to reveal the body beneath. "That's when everyone thinks they can stop medicating; that the cure has been successful and it will somehow continue having a salutary effect all on its own. No more attention need be paid. No more effort need be expended."

"Lean forward, son." The doctor slipped the dressing out from behind Hotch, dropping it to the floor by the bed. "Lie back again. Let's have a look here." With light, professional precision, his fingers traced the bones and indentations between them, testing for tenderness, keeping a close watch on Hotch's face for signs of discomfort.

When Marty felt a flinch, he noted that his patient's features remained blankly stoic. _Again…hiding._ He recognized his first frisson of discouragement when it came to Aaron Hotchner. _How do we break through here? The fox has gone to ground yet again._ He sighed. _Dave might be right: it's time for some shock therapy._

Aloud, the doctor continued, picking up the thread of his discourse on the pitfalls in treating infectious conditions. "As I was saying, the problem I encounter most often is judging things based on appearance. Infections go deep. Stop treating them just because they look better, and they can come back. Sometimes come _roaring_ back, twice as virulent. Persistence is the key to success. Vigilant persistence." He sighed, adding, almost as though talking to himself. "…and patience. The patience of a saint."

Hotch was definitely paying attention. There might even be some interest flickering deep within the eyes. Marty patted the ribs under his hand. "I think these'll be okay on their own now. But a little physical therapy on a regular basis might work wonders." Finally, the shadowed eyes looked up into his own.

"I could set that up for you. Twice a week or so…depending on your schedule." His smile had a touch of melancholy to it. "Like I said, Aaron: Diligence. Persistence. Don't give up. Keep working, and believe that things can get better. Alright?"

Hotch's gaze was steady. He mouthed the words _Thank you._

Marty's smile grew warmer. "Don't mention it. As I told you the other day, Dave offered me part ownership. I'm just kicking the tires; seeing what kind of maintenance is involved." He stood, groaning when his joints protested with audible pops. "B-u-u-u-t, all in all, I think I'd be getting the better part of the deal."

The doctor headed toward the door, assuring himself of the bargain he was getting. "Always wanted something smart that I could take out and show off every once in a while."

He glanced back with a mischievous grin. "And Fudge is gettin' kind of old, little bit shabby…"

He felt rewarded when the corners of Hotch's lips quirked upward. It was only for a moment.

But it was better than nothing.

xxxxxxx

Downstairs, Jack was deep in conversation with Mudgie and the much maligned Fudge.

Rossi was similarly involved, out of earshot, on the phone with Garcia, official conduit to the rest of the team.

"They're both improving, but Hotch still has a ways to go. And, he's doing that internalizing thing again. Morgan'll know what I mean. Just tell him it's like on the jet…after a case. He'll understand."

He paused, listening to her response, the audible equivalent of the snap and flash of colorful energy that personified the tech analyst.

"Then I'll rely on you to get the others on board…" Rossi looked up, hearing Marty coming down the stairs. "…case load permitting, of course." He watched the doctor make his way into the kitchen.

"And please tell the others to fill Reid in, too. He's the only one besides me who wasn't there for what I guess we'll call 'Part One' of Hotch's new curriculum. Yeah. But J.J., Prentiss, Morgan, and you…you'll have to remember what was said and just…I dunno…get creative. Build on it. Okay?" Rossi heard noises of meal preparation from beyond the kitchen door.

"Right. Thanks, Penelope. You've done _so_ much to help with all this. I hope you'll let us take you out when it's all over. And give you a proper 'thanks.'" He listened, laughed. "Good. I'll see you guys tomorrow…hopefully."

After closing the connection, Rossi checked to make sure Jack was still engrossed in his canine companions. Then, hearing more noises from the kitchen, he went to see what Marty was doing. He found the doctor putting together a tray of small snacks, along with another pot of steaming, hot tea. Marty glanced around when he heard Dave come in.

"I'm gonna keep pushing food on that boy upstairs. Lord knows, we have plenty on hand."

Rossi nodded. "How's he doing?"

"Ahhhhh…" It was part disbelieving frustration, part affectionate sympathy. "He's doing what you said he would. Hiding. And I have to say, Dave, he's very, very good at it."

"Well…he's had a lifetime to practice and hone his craft." Rossi sighed, watching his friend put the finishing touches on what would be next in line of a constant stream of edible offerings. "So what else do you think?"

"On a physical level, I think he's coming along. Voice'll probably start to come back tomorrow. Ribs shouldn't be in too much danger anymore." He glanced toward Rossi, brows raised. "But I did offer him PT. I'll set it up, but you'll have to make him attend."

Rossi nodded. "What else?"

"He's still contagious. Jack'll be fine in about three days, but Aaron'll need a little more time."

"And?"

"A-a-a-n-d…I'm beginning to wonder if he _wants_ to overcome this mental, emotional trauma he carries inside." Rossi's quizzical expression said additional explanation was required. Marty picked up the tray, shaking his head. "We have to consider the possibility, Dave. Being abused was the boy's whole life. It defined him as a man. He's had more than his share of pain and torment as an adult, too, so it's hard to make this judgment. I could be wrong…"

"But you could be right." Rossi swallowed, anxiety for Hotch bringing a sour taste into his mouth.

The doctor met the agent's eyes, reading the reflection of his own concern.

"It's what he knows best. It formed him. It's a terrible thing to consider, Dave, but…being hurt is what he expects. And maybe…maybe…"

Rossi's voice was sad as he finished his friend's sentence.

"Pain is Aaron's safe place."


	41. Packs and Tribes

Rossi watched the doctor ascend the stairs, intending to entice Hotch with more food and tea.

Aaron was recovering, but something inside was so broken it almost defied understanding. Rossi flashed on the episodes of feverish delirium when all he could do was hold his friend and tell him over and over that he was safe.

_And now we find out that for him 'safe' is a place of pain?_ Rossi shook his head, a small, repetitive motion that sprang from denial and stunned disbelief. _How could I have known him for so many years without picking up on that?_

And the answer was immediate. He could almost hear Aaron's voice speaking to him. _Because I know how to hide. I've never stopped. When you think you've found me, I'm gone…again…No one can catch me…no one can touch me…_

Rossi's glance fell on Jack, squirming about, wrestling Fudge, who ignored the pup with his arms twined around her neck, while maintaining a dignified air of patient suffering. He shook his head again, unaware of the motion; a reflexive rejection of Hotch's nature.

_No. It can't be. There __**is**__ someone who touches Aaron. He can't keep those barriers up against his son. He __**can't**__._ Rossi tried to deny the ache in his own heart. He'd thought they were so close. He knew Hotch better than anyone; loved him more than most. He might have cried himself, if his innate profiling abilities hadn't asserted themselves.

_I'm letting my own hurt block my vision of what's really going on here. Aaron isn't blocking me out. He's not blocking __**anyone**__ out. He's trapped. And he doesn't have the key to what's caging him. He's in a place he wants to leave, even if it's his place of choice. But he doesn't know how to get out. Now we just know that he's afraid of what he'll find if he __**does**__ escape. He can't imagine living in any other kind of cage._ The head shake turned to a nod. _We're all afraid of the unknown. Until we enter it and become part of that thing that's new to us…and the 'unknown' transforms into the 'known.'_

Upset, needing to distract himself, Rossi cast about for something else to take his attention. The largest kitchen counter was still crowded with Garcia's containers of things that didn't require refrigeration…and more gift-wrapped bags of homemade doggie biscuits…and a large shopping bag he hadn't really looked at, assuming it was more of the same.

He pulled on one handle. Spreading the opening wide, he peered into its depths. And grinned. _Prentiss. It has to be from Prentiss._ He pulled out the large envelope labeled 'Ribs For Your Ribs.' _Only Emily would have the audacity to get personal and demonstrate to her boss that she sees what he needs and doesn't care if he knows._

He looked deeper. A book on coin collecting with lots and lots of pictures and tales of extraordinary finds. It was a hobby Hotch had cherished as an adolescent…_probably a rare opportunity to take a break from his grim home-life reality_...but had abandoned as an adult. Rossi felt his throat constrict a little. _I bet he doesn't think that we know that about him._

A small, black, plush wolf gazed up from a nest of tissue paper, a toothy grin animating its snout. _Odd thing to give Aaron. He's not the stuffed animal type._ He fished the toy out and turned it over. On the back, just beneath the brushy tail was a label. "Wordy Wolf – Programmable Talking Doll." Frowning, Rossi inspected the creature more closely, finding an unobtrusive, black, plastic ring buried in the dark fur just behind one front leg.

He pulled the ring out, releasing it when the string to which it was attached was fully extended. The voice was unidentifiable at first, but he could imagine Emily disguising her own to achieve the effect of a wolf cub's puppy-speech.

"My name's Wordsworth…what's yours!" He repeated the action.

"Wheels up in thirty!" the little animal yipped. Rossi chuckled, pulling the ring out again.

"I've got your back!" His smile grew.

"We're a team; we're responsible to and for each other." His smile faded just a bit. The words had been delivered in a less humorous tone; more one of affirmation, of pride.

"We need you, Boss-man; get well…"

"You're our pack leader, Hotch!"

"We want Hotch! We want Hotch!"

"Give me an 'Aitch!' Give me an 'Oh!' Give me a "Tee..Cee…Aitch!"

Rossi compressed his lips, giving the furry, plush beast a solemn look. He placed it back in the bag, patting its head as though it needed to be congratulated on a good performance. He sighed.

_How many bosses in the world command that kind of affectionate loyalty?...Not many._ He turned, looking up in the direction of Hotch's room. _We'll see how things go tomorrow._ He pushed the bag back far enough away from the edge to safeguard it from investigating dog noses that might happen by.

It crossed his mind to bring it up to Aaron, but he decided to leave that to Prentiss.

If things went as planned, the whole team would be on hand tomorrow anyway.

xxxxxxxxx

For a moment, Marty was concerned. Hotch was nowhere to be seen.

He made space for the tray on the nightstand, glancing around the room for clues to his patient's whereabouts. When he heard the shower come on in the bathroom, the doctor gave a rueful smile. Concern for cleanliness, which he gathered was vital to Aaron's sense of wellbeing, was a good sign. But he wasn't sure of the man's strength yet. A bout of dizziness could easily fell someone with a 102 temperature.

He went to the bathroom door and raised his voice. "Aaron!" There was no response, but he hadn't expected one. Laryngitis might benefit from the steam generated by a hot shower, but not enough for Hotch to be audible yet. "Aaron, I just want you to know I'm out here if you need any help." The sound of the water altered. Marty recognized it as the change when a stream from a showerhead hits a body rather than a tiled interior.

_This is good. He'll feel better about the team descending on him tomorrow if his personal hygiene is under control._

The doctor retreated to the chair at Hotch's bedside and waited.

xxxxxxxx

Jack had worn himself out struggling to exert dominance over Fudge. The dog ignored his efforts to wrestle with studied, canine dignity; impressing on this pup that it would need to grow much larger before it could challenge her place in the pack.

Mudgie looked on, tongue lolling in amusement. He approved the demonstration of adult disinterest Fudge was showing. Pups had to learn their place. He wasn't surprised when the youngster gave up, panting from exertion. When he rolled free and cast a speculative glance Mudge's way, the dog yawned, signifying a lack of concern when it came to being bested equal to Fudge's.

"Jack?" Rossi came into the room bearing a plate arranged in two clearly separated sections. Both contained Garcia's cookies: one pile for people; one for pets. Rossi watched, smiling, as all three creatures fell on the treats.

Jack assumed the same position as the dogs, lying on his stomach and pretending to gnaw at his cookie, but, looking at his hands holding it in imitation of the paws beside him, he frowned.

"Poppi?"

"What?"

Jack extended one arm, a sad look in his eyes. "Spots are going away."

Rossi leaned close, examining the formerly bright spots that had faded to a brownish hue. "That's good. That means you're getting better and you can go back to school soon."

The child's face was tragic. It was Rossi's turn to frown. "What's wrong, Jack? Don't you want to go back to school? See your friends?"

"Guess so."

"B-u-u-u-t?" Rossi coaxed.

"Won't be a Leopard anymore." The voice was sullen, not expecting a non-member to understand the enormity of being cast out of Daddy's tribe.

Rossi's heart lurched in sympathy and the desire to spare the child any sadness. "That's not true, Jack." The small face looked up, hopeful, but uncertain until it knew more. "The spots got you initiated…made you worthy of being in the tribe."

Rossi's look was grave, not to be questioned. "And once you're in, you're in. You'll always be part of your Daddy's tribe, no matter what. Once a Raspberry Leopard…always a Raspberry Leopard."

Several beats passed. The boy considered this argument; the adult hoped his words were sufficient to overcome any misgivings about unblemished skin.

When Jack finally smiled, Rossi exhaled the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. Belief and trust were written all over the child's face. He went back to his cookie, chanting the new Hotchner family motto.

"Raspberry Leopards forever 'n ever 'n ever..."


	42. Cracks

"Can we go over it again? Before we get there?"

" 'S'matter, Pretty Boy? Eidetic memory not working?" Flashing a grin, Morgan nudged the teammate sitting beside him in the SUV, enjoying the opportunity to razz him a little.

Morgan was half-right. Reid's brain was hitting a roadblock. But what was impeding it wasn't a sudden lack of recall. Quite the opposite.

When Garcia had explained what Rossi wanted them to base their intervention with Hotch on, the youngest agent's brain had stuttered.

First, he hadn't been present…nor had Rossi, although both had had the details recounted to them by the others after the fact, and in Rossi's case, years later.

Second, when mention was made of the case where Reid had been kidnapped, held captive, and tortured both physically and pharmaceutically, his mind had automatically dredged up all the ugliness centered around Tobias Hankel and his dissociated personalities. Thanks to his power of recall, Reid was hit with such vivid images, scents, sensations, it was hampering his ability to concentrate in the present.

"Be nice, Morgan." J.J. had her own memories of guilt about her performance in the field that day her partner was taken. It brought out even more of her protective, big-sister edge toward Reid.

"C'mon. He knows I'm kidding." Morgan ruffled his friend's hair; a gesture that did nothing to improve Reid's mood.

Glancing in the rearview mirror from her place in the driver's seat, Prentiss saw the exchange. It reminded her there was something else of which they should be mindful in the upcoming confrontation. "And guys, remember, too: Hotch'll never admit it, and he won't initiate it, but he likes being touched."

Morgan saw another chance for gentle teasing. "Are you sure it isn't just _you_ want to touch him, Emily?"

Prentiss shot him a sly grin, letting him know she appreciated the joke, and wasn't at all threatened by the suggestion.

But, as so often happened, the comradely innuendo flew over Reid's head. "No, that's true. The tactile approach works well with approximately 89% of the patient population at any given time." Reid welcomed the opportunity to fasten on a statistic. It made him less nervous. But he still wanted a little more reassurance. He tried a different angle.

"So when we get there, how do we start? How did it begin with you guys last time? Tell me again?"

Garcia pushed her glasses higher on the bridge of her snub nose. "It was kinda awful, actually. I mean you were…you were…" She turned large, full eyes on her junior colleague.

Reid's memory was a gift of his intellect. Garcia's was a product of her heart; the heart that rebelled against all things dark and terrible by reacting with an overflow of love. She couldn't help herself. She was known to practice the spontaneous kiss…the spontaneous hug. She'd even left lip prints on Hotch's gaunt cheek after seeing the damage George Foyet had done to him.

Taking a shuddering breath, she began again. "You got a message through to Boss-man. And he ran with it. He explained it to us by having us list his worst qualities. Got us there faster."

An uncomfortable silence took up the next few beats.

"And Rossi thinks it might have hurt, but he actually seeks that kind of thing out?" Morgan ran his hand over his scalp, frustrated by both the idea of his leader's vulnerability, and his own unwitting part in that exchange so long ago.

J.J.'s soft voice filled the sudden quiet. "He let us touch his emotional scars, his pain, to get us through the riddle to find Spence quicker. Hotch let us hurt him to help Spence. And he never said a word about it afterwards."

The silence returned.

"We didn't know." Prentiss slowed as they entered Rossi's neighborhood. The dignified scale of it made her want to go carefully, almost reverently. It was like entering a library and knowing you should whisper.

"We're profilers. We _should_ have known." Morgan would never admit how much he admired his boss. The idea of inflicting pain on him…no matter how unintentional…bothered him.

"So what did you guys say?" Reid glanced around at his co-workers. He had a hard time imagining any of them being inordinately harsh, even if Hotch had asked for it.

"I dunno. It was too long ago. And no one thought it would stick with him." Morgan gazed out the window at the perfect, manicured lawns, the wrought iron gates. When he spoke again, it was like a confession with a twinge of regret. "I called him a drill sergeant."

"I told him he didn't trust women." Prentiss slowed even more as Rossi's driveway came into view.

"It wasn't that bad." Garcia sighed. "At least, I didn't think so."

"We're here." Prentiss pulled in, craning her neck forward and up to look at Rossi's impressive grounds. His lifestyle never failed to astonish her. "And remember, he likes to be touched."

Morgan's grin returned. "Yeah, yeah. Tell you what, Emily. If we can make him smile, you have to do something along the lines of 'sin to win,' 'put your money where your mouth is,' 'truth or dare.' Okay?"

Every other agent and one tech analyst gave him quizzical looks. Morgan's expression was pure mischief.

"If we get through to Hotch, you have to kiss him."

Assorted gasps and exclamations greeted the adolescent mentality of Morgan's condition on the intervention. But Prentiss merely raised a brow as she engaged her teammate's eyes in the rearview, meeting his challenge with calm determination.

"Kiss him where?"

The purring tone in which the question was asked set Morgan back. He was uncharacteristically reserved as Prentiss came to a stop and cut the engine.

xxxxxxx

Hotch had enjoyed a relatively quiet night.

When he'd finished his shower the previous evening, he'd been a little alarmed at how weak he felt. What was a routine, daily task had taken much longer than usual in his present condition and had drained him. He was secretly grateful Marty had been there afterwards to tuck him into bed.

He'd repaid the doctor by assuming a grave and patient air while listening to him reiterate his views on being perfect, and the value of having some cracks in one's façade.

He understood people were trying to help him. But it was frustrating to be voiceless, unable to argue or explain. There were too many things others couldn't possibly grasp about him. And privately, he was glad. He felt bad for anyone who loved him too much. It was energy ill-spent. It was an emotional investment that would never have anything but diminishing returns.

Not how he wanted it.

Certainly not how he'd planned it.

Just the way it was.

He couldn't explain. And every time he tried to explore himself for answers…additional insight…he'd get to a point where he just didn't care. It wasn't worth the painful effort.

_**I'm**__ not worth it._

Dave kept telling him how wonderful, marvelous, fantastic he was. It was like listening to the ocean. A comforting noise that made no sense, and, once it was out of hearing, easily forgotten. Hotch knew he was being a little peevish because he didn't feel well, but he was tired of trying to change something that he'd lived with for as long as he could remember.

_This __**is**__ me. If I'm so great, Dave, why do you want to change me?_

Eventually, he'd fallen asleep, tired of running the same track over and over without getting anywhere. The only thing that threw a wrench into the works was when he awakened sometime in the deep night to find Jack nestled beside him. One small arm had been pulled in close, keeping warm against Daddy. The other had been placed with very deliberate care over his now unbandaged rib injury.

When he'd shifted to better accommodate his son, the little hand had patted his ribs. Hotch swallowed. This was the one thing that he couldn't fit into his life philosophy. How someone as damaged as he was deserved such a monumental gift as Jack.

Some of Marty's words returned, to whisper to him in the dark.

_Cracks are necessary, Aaron. They let in the light. They protect from the danger of trying to be perfect. And they let out the bad, the steam that might otherwise build and build until the very pressure of trying to be perfect damages you; blows you apart…and away from those who love you._

Hotch curled in a little tighter against his son and let the old doctor's speech wash over him. In the silent night, when no one was talking at him, battering at his defenses, he was better able to see past them himself.

Jack stirred.

Hotch's stomach twisted.

_Oh, God. He's right. But it doesn't matter about me. Jack's the one who matters._

He squeezed his eyes shut.

_I have to let myself crack open for my son. I have to show him how so he won't end up like me._

Hotch drifted off again with his child's voice echoing in some far off dreamscape. "I wanna be like you, Daddy. Just like you."

_I can't let that happen. I have to let myself break so he'll see…he'll know…he needs to be __**different**__ from his Daddy._


	43. Surprise Encounter

Rossi hadn't slept much.

He was worried about the team descending upon Aaron. Wondering if it was the right thing to do. He'd risen twice during the night to look in on his friend. The second time, he'd peered through the darkness at what looked like far too massive a lump under the covers to be slender Aaron. Coming closer, he'd realized Jack had crept into bed to be at his father's side; one small, protective hand resting on Daddy's ribs.

Rossi's smile began in his heart, lighting his entire face. He pulled the covers a little higher to keep the pair warm, and turned off the monitor connected to Jacks' room. Once together, he didn't think there'd be a way to pry the Hotchners apart at night anymore. _And no bad thing now that flu's not an issue._ He returned to his own bed, wondering what it would have been like when he was Hotch's age to wake up with a child clinging to him. _You're a lucky man, Aaron. But you deserve it. You've earned it. You continue to earn it every day._

Now, as morning dawned in Quantico, he was waiting at the door when the Bureau SUV arrived. The team tumbled out, exhibiting varying degrees of trepidation. Reid looked downright nervous…and reluctant.

Rossi greeted them with a smile that failed to reach his eyes. He was a little unsure about this, too. But he couldn't think of anything else that would qualify as shock therapy. And he was tired of watching Hotch limp through life. He ushered his guests through the massive, carved front door.

"He's still asleep. How 'bout some coffee while we wait?"

A chorus of mumbled responses signaled general acceptance.

The group remained uncharacteristically silent as their host assembled coffee service, augmented by a selection of Garcia's seemingly never-ending cookies. When Rossi's eye fell on the gift bag Prentiss had prepared, his smile finally returned in earnest. Snagging the bag by one handle, he deposited it beside Emily's chair.

"Thought you might want to give this to him today. Maybe afterwards."

Morgan's rumbling chuckle interrupted. "Ohhhh…if all goes as planned, she'll be giving him something else…right, Prentiss?"

To her credit, the agent shrugged, raising one brow as she sipped from her cup; a study in nonchalance. "Mmmmm."

Rossi glanced around the group and correctly interpreted Morgan's strategy. He was trying to lighten the mood. They anticipated a tense encounter with someone they cared about and were schooled to treat in a certain manner. Suddenly, they were going to get very personal, very quickly with him. At such times, Morgan used humor to defuse the situation. It didn't seem to be working very well this time.

"Well, whatever you're planning, let's keep the main goal in sight." Rossi settled into what he considered the equivalent of a pre-game, locker room pep talk.

"Here's how it is. He lost his voice and as of yesterday couldn't do much more than glare. I didn't let him have anything to write with, so he was forced to listen to Marty and me when we tried to break through to him…"

Rossi's phone chimed. Spines straightened throughout the group; a reflexive response to the sound. But almost immediately they relaxed. If the team was going to be called in, Morgan's or J.J.'s phone would have gone off. Rossi glanced at the screen…and froze. After a few seconds, he shook his head, grinning.

"It's Hotch. He's texting me. Says 'I found my phone, Dave.'" He looked up at the five sets of eyes waiting for elaboration. "I wanted him to rest. I tucked it away in a drawer in his room." Rossi looked back at the message, shaking his head. "He must be feeling a little better if he went looking."

"Don't you believe it." Marty's voice preceded him as he entered the kitchen. "You know what he's like, Dave. He's an alpha. We took his control away yesterday and now he's dead-set on demonstrating he's got it back." The doctor paused, looking at Aaron's gathered co-workers. "Morning, all."

Nods and variations on the greeting came back at him. He continued.

"He's still sick and he shouldn't be doing anything more strenuous than hugging his son." Marty headed for the coffee pot. "That's my professional opinion, for what it's worth. And I did check him about twenty minutes ago. Still feverish." He filled a cup. "101.5 temperature is an improvement, but he's still feeling bad."

Morgan's phone announced a call.

Again, a current ran through the team. This could be a case. They might have to leave. All eyes were on Derek.

"It's Hotch!" He brought the small screen closer, incredulous. "He wants to know what we've been working on the last few days!"

Before the sick man's misplaced dedication could be fully absorbed, all heads swiveled toward the doorway.

Jack's piping voice could be heard, chanting tunelessly the sort of wordless nonsense children his age utter for their own amusement. They could hear him coming down the stairs, approaching the kitchen door.

"Everyone be quiet about Hotch." Rossi kept his voice low, private. "We don't want to alarm Jack."

The kitchen door opened…

…and the parties on both sides of it froze.

A still-spotted Hotch clad in boxers and t-shirt clearly hadn't expected to encounter anyone other than Rossi or Marty. He braced himself against the doorjamb, swaying, blinking, his son pressed against his leg.

Morgan was the first to react. "Whoa…."

If this was his boss feeling better, Derek didn't want to know what he'd looked like yesterday. Or the day before. He saw a painfully thin man with eyes that had the spark of fever in them, shining out of a face whose pallor and slight sheen of perspiration told him that navigating Rossi's grand staircase had sapped whatever reserves Hotch had.

"No, no, no, no, no…" Morgan was at his Unit Chief's side before the man could recover from the surprise of seeing his entire team present. "C'mon, man. Upstairs. Back to bed."

When Hotch tried to speak, a thready, rusty sound emerged. But it _was_ identifiable. "No."

Morgan gritted his teeth. "You look like hell. You're still sick." The dark eyes blazed defiance. Morgan was having none of it. "Either you let me help you back up, or I'm carrying you, man." A momentary stand-off while Derek tried to match the ferocity of Hotch's stare.

What tipped the scales was when Morgan muttered, "Okay, have it your way," and slipped an arm behind Hotch's waist. As he bent, placing the other arm behind the bare knees, preparatory to sweeping Hotch up into his arms, the leader of the BAU relented.

It was bad enough standing before them all in his underwear. He drew the line at being manhandled in front of not only his colleagues, but his son.

" 'Kay." It was a weak approximation of his normal deep baritone; more the voice of a small woodland creature just learning human-speak. But Morgan heard it and spared Hotch the indignity of being overpowered. He straightened, but the arm behind Hotch's waist remained where it was.

"C'mon, Hotch. Lemme help you back up." He tightened his embrace, encouraging his friend to turn around. But Hotch's eyes were fixed on the agents populating Rossi's kitchen.

"Why?" He squeaked, frowning at his own vocal disability.

Again, Morgan heard the scratchy, reedy voice and responded.

"We miss you, Boss-man." He claimed Hotch's gaze and held it. His voice softened. "We wanna help you, Hotch." He gave another squeeze to Aaron's waist, reassuring, coaxing him around.

J.J. saw what was needed with a mother's keen eye and approached, smiling down at Jack who sensed something was going on that was not entirely to Daddy's liking. She crouched down to the child's level. "Hi, Jack. Bet you want some breakfast, right?" A vigorous nod answered her.

She took his hand, but he resisted, casting an anxious look up at his father. Hotch sighed, met J.J.'s soft eyes and nodded. He nudged his son toward her. Having Daddy's approval made all the difference. Jack let Ms. Jareau lead him away, Garcia joining them as she listed from memory all the tasty options that awaited his five-year-old appetite.

This time Morgan had a little more success redirecting Hotch. Rossi came up on Aaron's other side, placing a hand between his shoulder blades, hoping to guide and comfort at once.

"Morgan's right, Aaron. You're not strong enough yet. Back to bed. And then I'll bring you something to eat and, well…" Rossi glanced at Morgan behind Hotch's back. "…then we'll see where things go."

With a small sigh, half gratitude, half resignation, Aaron let the men on each side of him take some of his weight. He'd misjudged his own recovery. He wasn't sure he could make it to the second floor on his own.

But if he really couldn't…if he collapsed…he knew the men beside him wouldn't let him fall.


	44. Common Bond

It was slow going getting Hotch up the stairs.

Halfway to the landing, he had depleted his store of carefully husbanded, and woefully overestimated, energy. Morgan and Rossi exchanged glances over his drooping head when each noticed the increase in weight they were supporting. Morgan braced himself to take even more, if necessary.

"Almost there, Hotch. We gotcha. A-l-l-l-most there."

Once they had him sitting on the bed, he seemed better. A few deep breaths and he straightened himself, raising his chin in a sad approximation of defiance. But when he saw the sympathy in the eyes of his two teammates as they stood, looking down on him, he relented. Leaning over, he rested his elbows on his knees; eyes finding something inordinately interesting on the floor.

Hotch was weak and he knew it. He was also honest and smart. There was nothing to be gained by pretending. _Not 'til I can fake it better, anyway_.

"I'm gonna bring him something to eat." Rossi headed toward the door, glancing over his shoulder when he realized Morgan wasn't following. "You coming?"

Derek shook his head, still watching Hotch with calculating eyes. "No, I think I'll stay here."

Rossi looked at them both, but didn't sense any alpha tension between them. He shrugged. "Okay. Be back in a bit."

When it looked as though Hotch didn't intend to move, Morgan took a seat beside him, close enough to dent the mattress enough that the lighter man had to adjust his position or risk sliding down into the heavier's territory. The Unit Chief frowned, scooting a little farther away. He didn't like being crowded. He shot a look at his subordinate, but Morgan's gaze was fixed on the same invisible, yet obviously fascinating thing on the floor that had claimed Hotch's attention.

He appeared entirely un-confrontational. And was clearly searching for words. When he placed a hand on his leader's back with a touch so gentle and caring, it belied the powerful look of it, Hotch stayed still and let him.

Morgan kept his eyes on the floor, feeling the Unit Chief's bones through the thin cotton of his t-shirt. His voice was low and private when he finally spoke.

"Hotch." He paused, gathering his courage. "More than any other two people on this team, you and me…we share…something." He kept his focus on the floor. "The way we grew up. The other's don't understand."

He could feel Hotch stiffen beneath his hand, his respiration quicken. The only people who knew the details of Hotch's battered childhood were Morgan and Rossi. The same three men also shared knowledge of Morgan's sexual abuse at the hands of a father-figure during his formative years.

"Hotch, I'm not saying we went through the same things, but…" He rubbed along the too-prominent bones of his friend's spine. "…but I'm working on it; working on getting past it. _You_…you're working on everyone else's problems…the _world's_ problems…but not your own." Morgan could swear he could feel Hotch's heart beating so rapidly, it was palpable through the man's back. The sense of vulnerable fragility was disturbing. He moved his hand up to Hotch's shoulder, kneading the tense muscles.

"I don't know what to say to make it easier for you." Morgan's voice thickened. "I don't think 'easy' is possible for guys like us… you know…damaged. But please know this, Hotch…" He gave his friend a one-armed hug, quickly released. "Every time you stop fighting the pain, it starts to grow again. You can't let it get ahead of you, man. And if you need help…hell, I'm strong enough to give it. And I'd be honored."

The two men finally glanced at each other, making eye contact. For a moment each saw a kindred spirit. Hotch broke away first.

He appreciated the offer, but the pain was an enormous part of who he was. He didn't know how to ask for help. He wasn't sure it really existed on a scale large enough to make a difference.

And he was so very afraid that if the pain ever went away…he'd fade right along with it.

There'd be nothing left of him at all.

xxxxxxxx

Downstairs, J.J. had set Jack up at a patio table, safely out of hearing in case discussion of his Daddy came up.

Rossi began putting together a tray for Hotch. When Garcia dove into the freezer, extracting a concoction that looked primarily composed of eggs and cheese, he let her take over breakfast preparation for the recovering measles victim.

"Isn't Morgan coming down?" When he didn't appear behind Rossi, Prentiss wanted to know.

"No. At least, not yet." Rossi shrugged. "He said he wanted to stay up there."

"Huh. Wonder what he's doing…"

"Do those two get along most of the time?" Marty was sitting in a patch of sunlight, sipping coffee, ruffling Fudge's ears every once in a while, and observing the team dynamics. Such a disparate group forming such a cohesive bond was a never-ending source of both admiration and amusement.

"Well, yeah. But Morgan'll speak up whenever he thinks things are going south." Reid enjoyed the hobby of observation as much as anyone. It was nice to have someone interested with whom he could share some of his insight into the team.

"Sometimes they butt heads. In the end, though, Morgan respects Hotch." Reid shook his head. "You wouldn't think it, but sometimes it's as though they share some kind of common bond. More than just a job-thing. But they never hang out together or anything." He finished in a musing tone, uncertain of the reasons behind some of the conclusions he'd drawn.

Marty saw Rossi glance toward the youngest agent. It was the look of a man wondering just how much knowledge the other has. _So, Dave's the repository for __**all**__ their secrets. Or at least more than just Aaron's. Interesting. He fills a fatherly position of authority with more than one, but Aaron's his favorite. Interesting._

Rossi added a pot of tea to Garcia's assemblage of more than Hotch would ever be able to finish. When he picked the tray up, the others shifted, giving him questioning looks.

"Should we come with you?" Prentiss asked, wondering if it was time for the intervention to begin.

"No. Let him eat first." There was no room for doubt in Rossi's voice. "We'll begin when he's done. Sorry about the delay, but he doesn't eat much. It won't take long."

There was a general settling back into place. Reid muttered something about not rushing Hotch; letting him take as long as he wanted….and maybe he'd need a nap beforehand…or maybe they could come back another day.

Rossi gave him a sympathetic look as he backed out of the kitchen door, balancing the overfull tray. "Reid, it'll be alright. If you don't want to speak up, you don't have to. But we should all be present. So he knows."

"Knows what?" Spencer's anxieties about dredging up the past were surfacing in his querulous, frustrated tone. "Knows that some mean things were said about him, and everyone's sorry?" He grimaced, looking down, regretting sounding defeatist. "That's not going to make any difference to him."

"That's not what we're gonna do, Spence." J.J.'s gentle reprimand had the power to cut through Reid's exasperation.

He looked up at the liaison, hoping for guidance and reassurance in what was coming.

"We're going to make him understand that those bad qualities are necessary; how valuable they are for us as a team. And then we'll tell him his good qualities." J.J. sighed. "Some of it I've told him before, but I guess it wears off, or he doesn't hear, or something…"

"Well, he'll hear it this time." Prentiss rose from her chair, headed for the coffee pot and a fresh cup. "If we have to take turns sitting on him to keep him still…he's gonna hear it this time."

Rossi smiled as he left with Aaron's breakfast. _I thought about sitting on him from the start. A team squash. Might just do it._

He raised his eyes to the second floor. _But I sincerely hope I don't get up there to find Morgan's already flattened the poor guy. He should at least get a last meal. _


	45. Intervention Interruptus

Rossi entered the bedroom to see Morgan and Hotch sitting side by side.

He noted both men's grim expressions. Setting the tray down, he tried to read the emotional temperature surrounding them.

"You boys need a referee?"

"What?" Morgan snapped back from whatever thoughts had preoccupied him. "Uh…no. No, we're fine. Right?" He looked at Hotch's profile, giving his shoulder a companionable squeeze.

Hotch nodded, unsmiling.

"Well, I brought you some breakfast, Aaron. Eat up."

The look Hotch gave the savory dishes steaming on top of the tray indicated his appetite had, once again, fled. He went back to staring at the floor, but the others got the sense that he wasn't gazing absentmindedly. He was working something out.

Feeling responsible, at least in part, for the Unit Chief's lack of desire for food, Morgan stood up. He gave Hotch's shoulder a last easy shake. "Meant what I said, man…"

"Wh_y_?" Aaron interrupted, looking around at both the others. His voice began with a hoarse, but recognizable scratchy quality, but cracked before he could finish even the one word. Still, Morgan and Rossi understood well enough.

" 'Why' what, Aaron?" Rossi poured a cup of hot tea, placing it in his friend's hand. He gave it an encouraging nudge toward Hotch's lips, hoping the liquid would soothe his throat, making it easier to talk.

"Wh_y_'s th' te_am_ 'ere?" He sipped, hating the squeak in his voice. It made him sound adolescent, as though he hadn't attained his full baritone yet. It wasn't the sound of someone in command.

Morgan shot Rossi an uncomfortable glance. "I'm gonna go get some coffee." He moved toward the door.

Rossi called after him. "You're coming back, right?"

Morgan gave Hotch a long, concerned look. "Maybe. Yeah. I guess."

Rossi frowned, unsure what had changed during the time he'd been bringing Aaron's meal. Morgan had seemed to be all in when it came to the idea of an intervention. Once he was gone, Rossi could feel Hotch's eyes fixed on him. The question of the team's presence still hovered, unanswered. He sighed. Picking up a fork and a plate of Garcia's eggs-'n'-cheese dish, he sat beside Hotch, forcing him to either take the food or see it spill to the ground when he pressed it into the Unit Chief's hands.

"Tell you what. You at least make an effort to get some of that into you, and we'll talk about it."

Hotch shivered, the fever still playing havoc with his body's internal thermostat. Rossi picked up a comforter, draping it over his friend's shoulders. He watched him making small, desultory patterns in the eggs, finally forking up a bite.

After a deep sigh, Rossi began. "The theme of the day, Aaron, is honesty. Honesty and love…believe it or not."

Hotch swallowed audibly, nerves impacting his attempt to eat.

"The team's here because we're worried about you and we want to help you, but we don't know how. So they want to talk to you." Hotch stared at him, eyes dark and troubled. Rossi hastened on. "You don't have to say anything, if you don't want to. But please listen. Okay? Can you do that?"

Fear, defensiveness, worry…it was hard to read the emotion deep within the glance Hotch gave before returning to the sculpture he was creating out of Garcia's dish. It was laced with enough cheese to enable the construction of a small igloo formation. Rossi watched him for a moment.

"You're really not going to eat, are you…"

It wasn't a question, rather a sad confirmation of the evidence. Hotch's only reply was another shiver. Rossi put an arm around his shoulders.

"I know you still don't feel good, Aaron. But they've all come here hoping to touch bases with you and maybe make you feel better. Let them, okay?" Rossi played his trump card. "And it might make _them_ feel better, too. So…please?"

Hotch's eyes closed for a moment, but when they opened again, he gave a single nod. If it was in his power to bolster his team's welfare, he would force himself to endure what he suspected would be an extremely uncomfortable encounter.

"Good. I'll get them." Standing, Rossi patted the back of his friend's bowed head. "Eat, Aaron. Please."

xxxxxxx

"Alright, children. Let's do this."

Rossi had retraced his steps to the kitchen, taking his time, hoping that Hotch would use it to eat at least a little.

"Okay. Here we go." Prentiss snagged the gift bag she'd prepared and made a purposeful way toward the staircase. She wasn't sure if this would be an appropriate time to give anything to Hotch, but she told herself it might be. It was an effort to feel optimistic about what was coming.

Somber expressions and slow movements marked the others' progress as they followed. Reid was the last, evincing the most reluctance. He trailed behind Garcia, whose speed was dictated by her four-inch glitter-spangled platforms.

Marty wished them luck. He would have liked to attend, but this sounded like a team activity. He was content to remain behind with Jack and the dogs.

Prentiss had reached the landing, the rest straggling behind her, Reid last, when his sharp voice rose in protest.

"No. No. Sorry, guys. I can't do this."

The rest of the team stopped, looking back at him. Their quizzical expressions were enough for the youngest agent to feel justified in pouring out his concerns, voice escalating, echoing through Rossi's spacious foyer.

"This is wrong." He locked eyes with J.J.. "You told me how you felt about the barrier Morgan put up for Jack's room to keep them apart. You _hated_ it. You _refused_ it. Well…this is the same thing!"

He cast worried, pleading looks at the rest of his co-workers. "We're trapping him. This isn't what he needs. It's what _we_ need. To know that he's okay. And we won't give him our stupid seal of approval unless he's what we want him to be."

"That's not what we're doing! Reid?" Prentiss raised her own voice to override that of her young colleague. "He needs to be forced to see himself in real light, not whatever twisted beam he's using."

"Well, he's never forced me to do anything. And I'm not gonna do that to him." Reid shook his head, turning to retreat back to the ground floor. "People aren't like that! They're just not! You can't change them that way!"

Midway through the young agent's tirade, Rossi's phone went off. Eyes still on Reid, he extracted it from his pocket, giving it a quick glance, intending to let the call go to voicemail. But the incoming text message wasn't one that could be ignored.

_Don't let Reid leave while he's upset. Send him in here. BTW, nice acoustics, Dave. I can hear everything you guys are saying._

The angry, young genius had only gone a few steps when Rossi's voice ran him down.

"Spencer!" He kept descending, one determined step after another. "Reid!" He continued. "Agent Reid! Your boss wants to see you! Now!"

That did it.

Reid turned in slow motion, a look of dread on his face. "What?"

Rossi gestured with his phone. "Hotch texted that he wants to see you. Alone, I presume." Confused looks were shared all around, but when Reid hovered, seemingly torn between obeying the call of his leader or bolting for freedom, Rossi gave him a verbal push. "You're welcome to read it, but it sounded like an order, Agent."

Lips compressed, Reid marched his way back up, brushing past his teammates, grumbling that none of this had been _his_ idea…so he didn't see why _he_ was the one being punished for it.

Before disappearing through Hotch's doorway, he treated his colleagues to a look that would have made Hotch swell with pride and consider making Reid his glare-protégé.

The others milled about for a moment. When Prentiss sank down, taking a seat on the top step, the rest followed suit, spacing themselves out on the wide, marble stairs.

"Wonder what's going on in there." J.J. voiced what they were all thinking.

"He heard us." Rossi sighed, a shrug accompanying his interpretation. "Hotch heard Reid getting upset. He wasn't looking forward to this talk we planned, but when he heard one of his team in trouble, he stepped in to do his best to fix it. Just like he always does."

Morgan echoed his sigh. "Man's sick and we're supposed to help him. What happens? He comes to Reid's rescue."

"Typical Hotch."

No one thought it strange that the last statement had been spoken simultaneously by everyone present.


	46. Spencer Speaks

Reid eased the door to Hotch's room open, peering in with all the trepidation of a man entering a lion's den. A man bereft of even the questionable protection of the clichéd whip and chair. And a large, not-particularly-happy lion.

But when he saw the lion, it looked like a fractured, depleted version of itself. And it's roar squeaked. Yet it still maintained a certain air of dignified nobility.

Hotch hadn't used the time since Rossi's departure for eating. He'd expended a little more of his precious store of energy rummaging through his go-bag, finding a pair of sweat pants, and dragging them on. Whatever was coming, he didn't want to face it in his boxers. He would have preferred the full armor of a suit and a nice, perfectly-knotted tie…_But any port in a storm_, he tried to comfort himself. Donning the pants might have made him feel a little more prepared, but it didn't have quite the effect for which he'd been hoping.

When Reid's eyes adjusted to the dim interior, he sighed.

Yes, Hotch was wearing a bit more than when he'd made his alarming appearance downstairs, but the effort did nothing to enhance. If anything, the way the sweats hung off his hipbones made him look even more pathetic. Bordering on waif-like. And when he drew himself up and nodded toward the chair by the bed, indicating Reid should take a seat, the younger agent scanned the length of his leader's body…and disobeyed.

Reid went to the bed, flipping the covers back and plumping the pillows into a pile against the headboard. He turned to Hotch and assumed as professorial a stance as he thought he could pull off, despite the frowning surveillance tracking his every move.

"You need to lie down before you fall down." Reid's large eyes, unable to dissemble without extreme effort, signaled genuine concern. "You don't look so good, Hotch. Please…"

The Unit Chief nodded, relenting. This day had already been draining, and he had no idea how much more was in store for him. Besides, he was glad to see his youngest agent had calmed down a little with something else to draw his focus. _If looking after me makes it easier for him, I'll let him._

Hotch brushed away the vagrant echo from somewhere in the past when Prentiss had informed him of the need to let his pack nuzzle him for reassurance and comfort whenever he'd been downed.

But Prentiss would have grinned. It was exactly what her boss was doing instinctively, trying to help the pup of the pack by letting the pup help its alpha.

xxxxxxxx

Out on the stairs, Rossi observed his teammates.

A general reluctance had settled over them like fog, softening their resolve, graying their bright expectations. He examined each one in turn.

Something had transpired in the short time he'd left Morgan alone with Hotch. Knowing their respective backgrounds, he could make a shrewd guess that it had touched on the lingering effects of an abusive upbringing. Clearly, it had influenced Morgan's desire to participate in an intervention, and it had also affected Hotch's appetite…never a good sign, yet an all too frequent one. This was neither the time nor place to question Morgan about it. His childhood was a private matter, deserving of respect and discretion.

J.J. was lost in thought, no doubt turning Reid's accusation over and over in her mind; trying to equate intervention with the child-proof barrier she had vetoed. Rossi watched her struggle, but didn't interrupt.

_**Is**__ it the same?_ She chewed on her bottom lip and frowned. _Morgan wanted to cage Jack, but we want to free Hotch._ She knew Reid's intellect always probed deeper than the rest of them. Reid could attain in his first try what it took others several attempts to decipher. _But…what if it's about control? Morgan wanted to control Jack, and we want to control Hotch's perception of himself. Is that it?_ She shook her head. Dissatisfied and unsure, she continued to look for additional angles to explore.

Prentiss was on the top step, leaning her back against a wall, eyes closed. To all outward appearances she was calm, almost meditative. Rossi smiled. He had immense admiration and respect for the alpha female. Once given a goal… set on a scent…few things could deter her from following through. Even now, he imagined she was biding her time like a predator whose quarry has taken refuge, but will ultimately come out into the open. There was a professional quality to everything she did. But beneath the surface, Rossi sensed the same conflicted nobility that lurked in Hotch. He was the only one who knew the secrets of Emily's childhood. It had not been abusive, but it had contained its own brand of trauma.

Marty had been right. Rossi was the guardian of his clan's hidden pasts. Each piece of pain they entrusted to him, just made him appreciate who they'd become all the more.

Last, his eye fell on Garcia, in many ways the most vulnerable. She fidgeted with her bracelets, rings, the beads of her necklace…anything to keep herself occupied…casting concerned glances toward the closed door through with Reid had disappeared. Garcia wasn't subject to the same things that motivated the others. Evidence and theories and missions be damned…she would follow her heart, trusting it to lead her where she was meant to be. Because she put it out front, it was an often battered heart. But it was also indomitable. Even if injured, it rose again and again, pressing onward with the kind of complete faith and determination that made Rossi consider Garcia to be the strongest of them all when it came to taking emotional risks. _It's not vulnerability she broadcasts_, he thought. _It's willingness. Willingness to leap…and to trust that at some point, one's wings will open. Or…one will enjoy the fall._

_And then there's me. _He sighed, leaning back and closing his eyes. _I just want each one of these children to be happy in the end. No matter where their paths lead them. But most of all Aaron. He's mine. God alone knows why, but he touches my heart._

Rossi looked up at the closed door.

_He's mine._

xxxxxxx

"Wh_a_'s go_in_' _on_, R_eid_?"

It was difficult to hear Hotch, so Reid pulled his chair closer.

He'd managed to settle his boss in bed, even freshening his cup of tea and coaxing him to take a few sips. But now Hotch wanted to know, to understand, what was happening with his team. And why its junior member was shouting in Rossi's staidly quiet mansion.

If only to spare the man's tired voice, Reid began to talk.

"They wanna do sort of an intervention with you, Hotch." The Unit Chief's brows rose, inviting more. "It's not that you're doing anything bad…well…you _are_, kind of…but…it's…well…uh…"

"_Re_id! _Ta_ke your t_ime_."

The younger agent nodded, composing himself. He knew what he wanted to say. It was just that his brain moved so much faster than the mechanics of speech, he often stumbled in his desire to communicate with the same succinct elegance as his mind worked.

"They want you to see yourself in a better light. Right now they think you take too much blame and not enough credit. You mourn, but you don't celebrate. And you try to handle everything yourself instead of asking for help….You'll give orders, assign duties, but you don't ask for help for yourself….And I think they'd like to give it, even if you don't want it." He finished sadly, contemplating his own hands, avoiding the dreaded stare of the dark eyes that knew too much; had seen too much; suffered too much.

After a pause…"_An_d y_ou_? _Do_n' agr_ee_?"

Reid shook his still-bowed head. "No. Not like that, anyway." He risked a brief glance before looking down again. He'd seen some pain in Hotch's face. But a willingness to listen. Always a willingness to listen to anyone who needed to be heard.

"Everyone admires you, Hotch. But I think you're the strongest man I've ever met." He shot another quick glance, but saw only an open invitation to continue. Reid took a deep breath.

"Not muscle-wise. But inside…within yourself. The thing is, you're strongest when you're fighting for others. When it comes to yourself, you step it down a little…let yourself get hurt more than needs to happen…let things be more difficult than they have to be." He bit his lip, turning his head toward the door beyond which his colleagues waited, hoping to subject Hotch to some kind of group effort.

"Nobody's perfect. We all have emotional baggage we're dragging behind us. So, I don't think they've looked deep enough…or maybe they've looked in the wrong place. But I think we're all on the same page about you in the end. It's just how they wanna get there that I really, _really_ disagree…" His voice had started to scale upward again.

"_Re_id…"

"Sorry." He was studying his hands again, kneading the knuckles. After a moment, Reid realized he would have said all this to the others if he'd felt they'd listen without cutting him off or arguing. But Hotch knew the art of being still. How it encouraged and empowered. It was a leader's skill. And Reid loved that about him. He felt the turmoil and conflict resolve itself into the right words in Hotch's quiet presence. He looked up.

"They haven't figured it out yet, Hotch, but they _don't_ want to change you. They just want you to share more. Or, at least…that's how _I_ feel."

Looking downward again, Reid's eye fell on Marty's little, black medical bag, on the floor, tucked up against the nightstand. A rare opportunity beckoned. Reid brightened.

"Ohhhhh…cool….Hotch? Can I examine you?"

He would have liked a little more time to absorb Reid's words, but the Unit Chief decided maybe now would be a good time to bring in the others.


	47. Team Motivation

While Reid couldn't resist poking through Marty's medical bag, fascinated by the antiquity of it, as well as its contents, Hotch took the opportunity to process some of what his junior agent had said, and fortify himself with more tea.

When Reid donned a stethoscope and darted a wistful glance at Hotch's chest, the Unit Chief decided it was time to take the next step. Hotch had no idea what he wanted to say, but he was certain that some form of group communication needed to take place. If his entire team was concerned enough to stage a confrontation, then he needed to pursue the impulse that had set them on this track. There had to be a resolution, otherwise the distance between him and those he was supposed to lead would widen in an unacceptable manner.

"Re_id._"

Spencer looked up, eyes full of the hope that Hotch had changed his mind and would let him listen to his internal organs.

"G_et_ the _oth_ers, pl_ea_se."

Hopes dashed, but stethoscope still dangling from his neck, Reid went to the door. He'd intended to call his colleagues in, but when they saw him, Morgan motioned for him to join them on the landing. A quick glance back let him see Hotch had closed his eyes. He was leaning his head back, gathering himself for whatever came next. Reid pulled the door to as quietly as he could and joined the group loitering on the stairs.

Morgan eyed the medical equipment gracing Reid's neck like a Tim Burton nightmare tie.

"So where are we, Pretty Boy? What went on in there?"

Having said his piece already, Reid's anxiety at confronting Hotch was behind him. He raised his chin with the confidence that relief had bestowed upon him. "I told him how I felt. That's what we're here for, and…I'm sorry, guys, but I just couldn't _ambush_ him that way. I'm sorry." He received a few nods and murmured words of agreement. "Well, he'd like to see everyone now."

Morgan pulled himself up from where he'd been sitting, groaning a little at muscles gone stiff. "We wanna make sure we're all on the same page. That's all." His voice lowered. "I called him a drill sergeant that time he asked us to list his bad qualities. I didn't get a chance to tell him that's what we _need_ when we're in the field."

"Don't you think he knows that?" Prentiss brushed at the seat of her pants out of habit…Rossi's floors were immaculate.

"I dunno. I never told any of you guys, but he brought it up again. Months later."

"What? When?" Garcia's concern was palpable. She hadn't been so sure that Hotch was in need of validation as much as everyone seemed to think. But if he was holding onto verbal slights and still chewing on them after months, that was concrete proof that their words _had_ hurt him…or at least lodged in an unhealthy crevice in his psyche.

"It was when he put in for that transfer. He said that maybe our next Unit Chief wouldn't be such a drill sergeant." Morgan shook his head, eyes distracted…feeling again the shock at seeing his boss taking leave of the job they knew he loved.

"Wow." J.J. rubbed her eyes. "I didn't know that." She pursed her lips, expelling a long, slow breath. "I called him a bully."

"I said he didn't trust women as much as men." Prentiss repeated her contribution to the bash Hotch session.

"And he started it out by saying he had no sense of humor…which isn't true. Not entirely, anyway." Morgan took a deep breath. "Ah, hell. We're losing focus and purpose. Exactly what _never_ happens when Hotch's in charge."

"You still want to do this?" Rossi was feeling a change in the group resolve. He didn't want to betray any confidences with which Hotch had entrusted him, but he did feel the need to direct the team back to the reason he and Marty thought this intervention appropriate.

The looks he got were undecided.

"You're not just here to apologize to Hotch for saying something that might have been more hurtful than anyone realized at the time." Rossi sighed. "You're here to keep him from continuing down a road where he feels if he's not perfect, he's not worthy of...well…much."

He stopped short of delving too deeply into Hotch's private doubts about the kind of father he wanted to be, but feared he wasn't; about the kind of son he believed he'd been; about the kind of leader he struggled to be.

"He's harder on himself than is healthy. I think you guys see him more clearly than he sees himself sometimes. Just try to give him some of your perspective. Marty and I thought he might be more apt to listen if everyone was involved. What you say might give what we've tried to tell him some additional authentication."

Rossi looked from face to face. "Think you can do that? Make him see he's not falling short…at least where you guys are concerned?"

The responses were muted. Although everyone present supported Hotch without reservation, Rossi's summation of their mission left a lot unsaid. A lot between the lines. A lot that they might never know in detail. But Hotch's best friend setting this up had to mean that it was more important than they were being told.

Each agent's mind went off on tangents fueled by their own pasts and their own relationships with Hotch.

With a renewed, if not completely defined, sense of purpose, they filed in to see their boss.

xxxxxxx

Upon entering the bedroom, Morgan surprised all present, including Hotch, by walking to the far side of the man's bed, taking up a position standing beside the headboard, facing the others.

Rossi hid a smile. _He's demonstrating he's got Hotch's back. He's standing guard against whatever threat might come._

The Unit Chief glanced up as Morgan rested the heel of one hand on his shoulder, its fingers spreading downward over his collarbone.

"Here's how it works." Morgan's voice brooked no dispute. "We can all have our say, but if m'man starts to fade, I'm calling it quits for everyone. Got it?"

No one was going to argue with Morgan in protective mode. And everyone was glad when he went first.

"Hotch, we just wanna get some things straight with you. And since it's kinda hard to pin you down and keep you still when we're at work, this seemed like a good opportunity." He took a deep breath, releasing it slowly.

"A while back I called you a drill sergeant…" Morgan could feel Hotch's muscles flinch beneath his fingers. He responded by pushing back against the tension. It was a physical way of saying _Don't deny it…we both know it bothered you._

"Thing is, if you _weren't_ like that, you couldn't do your job. Thing is, if I ever decide to take one of the leadership positions they keep offering, I'm gonna be the same way. Because I understand it. Because it works. And because I admire the man who taught it to me. It's gonna sound dumb…" Morgan's eyes scanned the other occupants of the room. Like a leader, he was setting the example for the others to follow. "…but I guess this is the place, and these are the people, and now is the time when it's okay to sound dumb. As long as it's an honest dumb." He squeezed Hotch's shoulder again. "I like you, man. And you gotta know: whatever hell you've been through, I'm glad…if that's what it took to make you like you are. And I'll take anyone down who says you're not the best damn Unit Chief the Bureau's ever had."

Hotch had twisted his neck around to see Morgan while he spoke. The scowl was absent. The eyes were unguarded, but not completely comprehending.

Rossi kept careful watch. _He's listening…gathering information. Probably going to store it up and examine it, pick it over when he's alone. And he's a little surprised, but I think in a good way._ He nodded to himself. _Good. So far, so good._

Morgan and Hotch locked eyes for a few seconds. Neither blinked. Neither looked uncomfortable. When Morgan smiled and broke the connection, Hotch turned away, too, a distant look in his eye.

"Okay." Morgan raised his chin and looked out at the rest of the team. "The name of the game is honesty. And it's okay to sound dumb.

"Who's next?"


	48. Of Trust and Bullies

Prentiss moved in with the smoothness of a panther. She took a seat on the mattress, only inches separating her face from Hotch's.

"Me. I'm next."

Morgan's hand tightened involuntarily on Hotch's shoulder. _Jeez, Prentiss. I was only kidding. Please don't kiss him...Please don't kiss him...Please don't…_

A wry grin creased Emily's lips as she saw Hotch flinch from the force of Derek's grip. "Oh, lighten up, Morgan. I just don't feel like standing over him and talking down at him. And go easy or you're gonna tear his arm out of the socket."

She had the satisfaction of seeing her colleague's fingers do an abrupt release. But the hand didn't entirely desert Hotch's shoulder. _Probably so he can wrest him away from me if I go berserk and attack._ Emily shot a conspiratorial glance at J.J.. They'd long suspected that the men were just a tiny bit more cautious around female agents…women who were armed…than they'd admit. _And maybe they should be, 'cause it __**is**__ kind of fun to mess with them. A little. Now and then._

Hotch hadn't strayed from watching Prentiss. She gave Morgan one more reprimanding look and then concentrated on the dark eyes inches from her own.

"H-o-t-c-h." Her voice caressed his name. But Morgan detected nothing sensual in her tone. It was more like affectionate care; like gentling a feral animal. Still, he cupped his boss' shoulder protectively.

"H-o-t-c-h…I'm gonna get kind of personal with you, because this isn't the office, and Morgan laid down the ground rules: honesty, even if it's dumb." Hotch swallowed, but didn't blink. "I told you once that I didn't think you trusted women as much as you trusted men." She saw Morgan's hand rub the shoulder with a message of support…_And maybe agreement_… in her peripheral vision.

"What I _didn't_ get a chance to say is that I think I understand why. The way I see it, when men have hurt you, it's been mostly physical." She gave her head a small shake, temporizing her words. "I know you've been hurt psychologically, too. You haven't gotten off scot-free. But when a man is involved, you expect, if he hurts you, it'll be first and foremost, a physical wound."

Her voice lowered; a note of sadness darkening it. "But when women have hurt you, it's been on a deeper, emotional level. And you never see it coming, because you're not built like that. And because the women who've hurt you should have been the ones you could trust most. So the pain is worse and lasts longer than what you expect from men who attack you."

Hotch shivered. Morgan leaned around, trying to get a better angle on his face, wondering if it was fever or truth that made him tremble, wondering if he'd already reached his limit and it was time to call a halt.

Prentiss closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, they were shadowed, sorrowful. "H-o-t-c-h…I'm sorry you feel that way, but I don't blame you. And I think we all understand when you're hurting you like to do it in private. That's okay. But we'll still keep an eye on you. You can't stop us from wanting to show you we care about what you're going through, even if it's just a hand on your shoulder…"

She glanced up at Morgan, who no longer looked worried that she might try anything untoward. "…or some cookies…" Garcia couldn't help a small, breathy 'oh.'

"…or this…" And before Derek had time to interpret her movement, Emily leaned to the side and pressed a feather-light, sisterly kiss on Hotch's temple. She pulled back and caught his eyes again.

"I'm with Morgan: if the things that have happened to you made you what you are, then I'm all in. 'Cause you're better than fine, Hotch. But…" She paused, making sure he was paying attention. "…but…I'll go one further. I think what you are at your heart, at your core, survives in _spite_ of what's happened to you."

Prentiss stood, touching light fingers to Hotch's other shoulder. "And for that, I'm very grateful." Her smile was brief, but warm. Hotch's lips twitched, but he didn't quite echo the expression. Emily broke the rapt silence that had fallen by giving Morgan a mischievous raised brow. _I kissed him, Derek. Bite me._

Morgan would have chuckled, giving the devil her due, but he felt the shoulder beneath his hand shudder again. Leaning down, he spoke close to Hotch's ear. "You alright, man? Need a break?"

Wordless, Hotch shook his head. He darted a look at Rossi, but didn't keep it long enough to see his friend's small nod; tacit approval for letting his team speak without making them feel awkward. _But it might just be that he's pulling in on himself and isn't letting anything show while he's 'under attack.'_

Rossi sighed, deciding he and Marty would do some follow-up work on Hotch no matter where this intervention led.

Morgan straightened, accepting his leader's willingness to continue. "Who's next?"

J.J. stepped up, taking the place Prentiss had vacated.

Although assuming the same position, the quality of her presence was as different as feathers from fur. Emily's profile of Hotch's relationship with the fairer sex aside, J.J. was a female with whom he felt safe. Once, he had tried to put his finger on why, but as soon as the profile started forming in his mind, he banished it. He didn't want to look too closely. He didn't want to know the secret. He just wanted to enjoy the gentle quiet that surrounded her and, when he was nearby, enveloped him.

The way the two were postured, not even Morgan saw J.J.'s small hand take a place over Hotch's wrist, her thumb stroking the sharp bone at its side. She kept her eyes averted, composing herself. When a few moments had passed and she felt Hotch's wrist relax, J.J. looked up at him from under her lashes.

Her voice was low, private. Even if the others could hear, it felt as though the sound of J.J.'s words worked a spell where nothing bad could happen. No misunderstandings. No emotional upheavals. Nothing to be afraid of. Just people helping people. Family.

"Hotch…I said you could be a bully sometimes." Hotch started to shake his head; for the first time looking as though he wanted to interrupt. He stopped when J.J. squeezed his wrist. "No. Let me."

Morgan felt the shoulder relax, responding to the liaison's innate ability to establish calm, serenity.

"There were a couple of things I didn't tell you, though. First, I recognize that in you, because it's in me, too."

Hotch's eyes widened. He even glanced around at the others. It was inconceivable that gentle J.J. could be capable of the bluster and push and domination that were the hallmarks of bullying. Her lips stretched, amused at how all these profilers hadn't seen the pieces of her past buried beneath the placid exterior she cultivated in order to do her job.

"I told you once, Hotch. Being in a small town is a battle. All eyes are watching. It's a cage where all the animals are biting and scratching each other. If you want to get out, you have to claw and fight and be the best…even if there are others who might be naturally better than you are." Her steady gaze was locked on Hotch's.

"I wanted out. So I fought harder for it than any of the others. And that meant pushing some people down as I pulled my way up. I bullied. I'm good at it. And I was much worse about using it than you are. When _you_ bully, Hotch, it's to accomplish something on someone else's behalf. You do it to solve a case; to catch a killer, a rapist, a monster. I did it for me. Just me."

J.J. watched bafflement and recognition war in Hotch's eyes. She pressed on his wrist, reclaiming his focus.

"I also said 'sometimes' you're a bully. The rest of the time you make me wonder how a man with such a soft heart…so much kindness in him…so much consideration…can do this job so well. It took me a while to figure it out." Her smile was slow and sly. "That kindness is your strength. And it's a lot more solid and unassailable than the kind of power that comes from a forceful, mean place. And it makes people trust you and want to follow you."

"So…that's the kind of bully you are, Hotch. A good one. As good as they come."

With the natural ease of friendship, J.J. leaned over and brushed her own kiss on top of the one left by Prentiss. She stood, patting Hotch's wrist, and retreated back to the fringes of the group; a place she preferred now that she'd escaped the magnified scrutiny of her small town past.

Morgan was about to call the next teammate, but felt Hotch shiver again. This time, he moved to where he could crouch down and look into his face. "Man, you still up for this?"

The Unit Chief nodded. "'M o_kay_…" His voice cracked.

"Rossi."

The older agent moved to the bedside, flashing Morgan an inquisitive look.

Morgan tilted his head toward Hotch. "He look okay to you?" Rossi knelt down, peering into the sick man's eyes.

"Aaron?" Hotch focused on his friend after blinking a few times. Rossi shook his head. "He didn't eat breakfast and he's still got that high fever. Let's give him a break. Get some tea and maybe some food into him."

Morgan turned to address the others. "Let's take twenty, guys." His eyes shifted among them. "Garcia's the only one left. You can wait, can't you, Baby Girl?"

"Hey!" Reid pulled himself erect, looking discomfited. "I still have some stuff I wanna say, too."

Morgan chuckled. "Okay. We're gonna give Boss-man a few, then Baby Girl _and_ Pretty Boy can have a turn."

Rossi stayed by Hotch's side as the others wandered off, intent on refreshing themselves and mulling over what had been said so far. When Hotch gave his friend a weak smile, Rossi returned it, handing him a cup of tepid tea.

_At least he didn't apologize for needing a minute to rest. Every time we circumvent a 'sorry,' it's a small victory. So far, so good. But still a long ways to go._


	49. Grief à la Garcia

Marty looked up when he heard the cadence of multiple feet thumping their way down the stairs.

From his place on the patio, he tried to gage the temperament of the team as they made their way into the kitchen. _If I had to describe them in one word, it would be 'subdued.' Or maybe 'contemplative.' _ The old doctor nodded to himself. _Not bad, but still feels like a work-in-progress. There's no sense of resolution._

He shrugged. He hadn't really expected that kind of ending. Aaron was on the journey of a lifetime. _For all the energy and care we put into him, it might only push him a short way down the long road he needs to travel._

He glanced to where Jack had fallen asleep in the sun, nestled between two large, dozing dogs. Washed out by the clear light, the boy's rash looked faded, almost gone. _Couple more days and he won't be a Leopard anymore._

A ripple of sadness washed over Marty. The child wanted connection with the father so desperately. And, although the impulse was mutual, he didn't think Aaron grasped how deep his son's commitment to him ran. _He doesn't understand how much a father can be loved, because his own was such a regrettable monster. Ah, well. Can't change what's past. Let's go see how the present's doing._

He groaned as he levered himself out of his chair and went to meet Aaron's people.

xxxxxxx

"That went well, don'tcha think?" Prentiss headed for the coffee pot.

"So far." Morgan personified Marty's assessment of being 'contemplative,' eyes distant, response somewhat absentminded.

Emily glanced at J.J.. She'd expected a more enthusiastic reaction. In true Prentiss fashion, if the lion seemed to be sleeping, she'd prod it to make sure. "Sooooo…Derek. Scary thing: I _kissed_ him...and lived to tell." She poured her coffee, keeping Morgan in the corner of her eye. "…And the sun's still shining…And the stars will still be in the sky tonight…" Morgan shrugged. Nothing.

"And _J.J._ kissed him…and…" Prentiss looked around to where Garcia was fidgeting with her bracelets, looking more distracted than her Chocolate God. "…and _Penelope_ will probably kiss him…"

"Huh? What?" Garcia jumped at hearing her name. "Oh, uh…yeah. Sure. Maybe. Probably…I…I dunno."

Ear tuned to his Baby Girl's distressed dithering, Morgan returned from wherever his thoughts had taken him. "G-a-r-c-i-a? What's goin' on?"

"Nothing. Nope. Nada. Nothing." She pushed fuchsia frames farther up the bridge of her nose, eyes darting about, looking a bit like a frantic bunny. "I just…I'm gonna take something…" Her glance fell on the containers lining the countertop, filled with cookies, brownies and other sweet treats. "I'm gonna take this up to Captain-My-Captain." She snagged a citrus-yellow box and fled the kitchen.

The other three agents exchanged puzzled looks. Marty's calm voice intruded on them.

"I think Miss Garcia wants a private audience with your boss."

Morgan went to the kitchen door, pushing it open to track the tech analyst. The first thing that caught his eye was the bright spot of yellow…the container of cookies…abandoned on a small table at the foot of the stairs.

xxxxxxx

Garcia wasn't sure why she felt the need to resort to subterfuge, concealing her desire to see Hotch alone.

In fact, she wasn't sure herself why she wanted some one-on-one time. All she knew was that her emotions were roiling about inside her like an unpredictable maelstrom, and the force was propelling her upstairs. And she just really, really, _really_ needed to see the stern face of her Hotch-rocket.

She left the cookies behind, needing both hands to steady herself against the banister as she navigated the wide, marble steps in her extraordinary, edgy, totally impractical, footwear.

xxxxxxx

Rossi waited until the others had left before taking a seat at Hotch's bedside.

When the younger man closed his eyes and expelled a long, shaky breath, Dave leaned forward, brushing the hair back from the too-warm forehead. Recalling Marty's words earlier, Rossi tried to offer, if not comfort, then acceptance.

"Remember, Aaron: your emotional control is weakened, same as your body."

Hotch concentrated on breathing. Really, what he wanted most was to cuddle down with Jack and play one of childhood's games where, if you were brave and good, you could count on winning. After a moment he tried to talk.

" 'F my t_ea_m 's th_is_ wor_ried_ 'bout _me_…" He opened his eyes, shaking his head to show Rossi what a bad portent he considered the entire situation.

"If your team is this worried about you, it means they care about you. It doesn't mean they've lost confidence in you…idiot." Rossi's smile was sad. He hoped this was just Aaron's knee-jerk reaction; a reflexive response that would melt away once he had time to replay his colleagues' words in the privacy of his own mind. And once that mind was free of fever. He was about to say so when he saw Hotch's brows rise and his eyes widen. He twisted, looking over his shoulder to see what had claimed his friend's attention.

Garcia teetered in the doorway, wringing her hands. Her expression was an amalgam of indecision and tragedy. Even from a distance, even through the thick lenses of her glasses, even in the muted lighting, the men could read the anxiety and incipient tears in her eyes.

"Penelope?" Rossi's one word conveyed a world of concern. Hotch's face was an appropriate counterpoint; the visual expression of Rossi's audible one.

Garcia risked an uncertain step past the threshold. "Oh…sirs…I'm so sorry. I just…I…I didn't mean to interrupt, but…" She brought her clasped hands in front of her mouth, biting her lip and looking like a Technicolor chipmunk on the cusp of deciding whether to run to its burrow or stand up and fight for its nuts.

"What's wrong?" Rossi stood, turning toward her.

But it was Hotch's completely uncharacteristic gesture that broke through, releasing Garcia from emotional paralysis. Hitching himself up straighter, Aaron extended his hands, palms up. It was the traditional signal that beckoned someone in dire need of comfort to come and take some.

Garcia accepted the pantomime invitation, mincing across the room to plop down in the same spot formerly occupied by Prentiss and J.J..

Hotch strained his voice to repeat Rossi's question. "Wh_at_'s wr_ong_? Gar_cia_?"

"I'm just so sorry, sir! So very sorry…and I know I wasn't part of what the others are talking about…I never said anything bad about you…but…oh, sir! I don't know if you even heard me, but I was just so _mad_…"

"_Garcia!" _Rossi tried to staunch the verbal flood that communicated emotion, but not much else.

"S-sir?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Well, I…uh…" She bit her lip, blinking at Hotch, who returned her gaze with a complete lack of understanding. "Well…it's…um…"

Rossi looked from one to the other, finally grasping that Garcia had waited for the others to leave before speaking up. "Is this something you'd rather tell Hotch in private?"

Her relief was palpable. "Ohhhh…_yes_, sir…please…"

Rossi backed away, hands up, warding off any more emotional tsunamis. "Okay. Alright. I'll be downstairs. Just come get me when you're finished."

"Oh, thank you, sir. Yes. I will. Thank you."

Rossi gave Hotch a last eloquent glance as he exited. _I have no idea what this is about…but you're on your own, Aaron. Good luck._

xxxxxx

As Rossi's footsteps faded, Garcia turned her full, focused attention on Hotch.

"Oh, sir. I don't know if you heard any of it, but I'm _so_ sorry if you did. I was upset and mad at you…"

Hotch stared at his tech analyst, shaking his head. Holding up a hand, he stemmed the flow of words once more. "B_ack_ground. Ne_ed_ backgr_oun_d. Pl_ea_se."

"Oh…oh…okay. Of course. 'Cause maybe you _didn't_ hear. Sure." She licked her lips, averting her eyes to the bedspread, taking a moment to rewind herself. When she looked up, Hotch met her with what he hoped was calm, encouraging regard.

"It was right after you got…you know…when Foyet…um…"

"St_abb_ed me?"

A small whimper escaped the hot pink lips even as Garcia bit them. Nodding, her eyes were a little too moist for Hotch's comfort. Rossi was right. He felt emotionally fragile. At the moment he wasn't sure he could deal with another's tears. He was relieved when Penelope swallowed the impulse and continued.

"Well…after I got off that day, I came to see you." Her lip trembled, eyes filling once more. "And you were just so…so….Oh, sir…All the king's horses and all the king's men, sir…"

Despite fatigue and his own emotional overload, Hotch was fascinated. Listening to Garcia was like unraveling a puzzle that required one to take a few intuitive leaps to get from point A to point B. And this close, her physical aspect…the makeup and accessories…had a mesmerizing effect all their own on his fevered perceptions. She took his blank stare as an invitation to continue.

"And you were so still…and so pale…like…like you were…and I got scared…and…and…I got mad at you, so I…I…_yelled_ at you!" Garcia wailed her confession, punctuating it with a sob.

A tiny corner of Hotch's mind perked up its ears, connecting the times in his childhood when he'd been yelled at, punished, for getting hurt or being sick. After the ingrained, primal frisson of fear ebbed, however, he made the leap, seeing the woman's behavior for what it was: worry over a loved one.

Unaware of her boss' thoughts, Garcia flowed onward.

"I…I…I called you a stupid, _stupid_ man. B-because you should have, like, a whole _pack_ of watch dogs and…and…and security like Fort _Knox_ on your front door…and…and…I'm so _sorry_, sir!"

The tears won, tracking an intrepid path downward through mascara, liner and foundation.

"…And I don't know if you heard me, but…but you're _not_ stupid, sir. You're smart and you're brave and you have really great hair and you dress so…so…beautifully…but I was so _scared_! Sorry…sorry…sorry…"

Hotch felt his own throat tighten, making even squeaky, broken speech impossible. So while Garcia descended into outright sobbing, chanting the word that she didn't know had been the hallmark of her leader's childhood, he drew her to his side and let her tears dampen his t-shirt.

And that's how the team found them when they returned some time later to complete the intervention on Hotch's behalf.


	50. A Spot of a Different Color

"How's it going?" Marty's inquiry distracted the agents from Garcia's abrupt departure. "Is Aaron doing alright with a group therapy approach?"

Morgan pulled back from the puzzling scene of Garcia's abandoned cookies. "So far, so good. He's tired. We were gonna give him a break, but…looks like my Baby Girl has other ideas." His tone was that of a truly baffled man.

The doctor stretched, hearing the regrettable creak of aging joints. "Well, maybe you can give him a little rest after the lady's done with him. But…." He looked toward the patio where Jack was enjoying the company of Mudgie and Fudge. "…but there's another Hotchner that might need a little help right about now."

Four pairs of eyes followed the direction of Marty's gaze.

"Kid looks okay to me. What's up?" The littlest Hotchner looked contented…happy even…to Morgan.

"Well, Dave mentioned he's a little upset about losing his leopard spots. Doesn't seem to want the tribe to disband just yet."

Morgan shrugged. "Not much we can do about that. For my money, the faster they both clear up, the better."

"Um…it's not about healing, Derek." J.J.'s soft gaze settled on the child and his furry companions. "It's about belonging. And belonging to the best club in the world, because his Daddy's in it. His Daddy _leads_ it."

After a moment of thought, Morgan shook his head. "He's not getting kicked out of anything. In a week or so, they'll both be spot-free…un-leoparded. They can make a new club. So, I don't get it."

"I think I do." Prentiss' voice was low, but firm. She sighed, then seemed to come to a decision. "I think I know what to do. Maybe. Sorta. Worth a shot, anyway." She glanced around for her purse. Slipping the strap over her shoulder, she headed for the door and the foyer beyond.

"I'll be back in a bit, guys."

xxxxxxx

Soon after Emily left, Rossi returned, looking a little overwhelmed.

The others were scattered about the spacious, sunlit room, the coffee pot providing a constant flow of their fuel-of-choice. Morgan straightened at sight of the older agent.

"Is Garcia okay? What's goin' on up there?"

Rossi shook his head, looking back toward the stairs. "Tell ya the truth, I'm not sure." He returned his attention to the group populating his kitchen. "She was upset, but she wanted to talk to Hotch in private." He took a quick headcount. "Where's Prentiss?"

Marty's slow smile presaged his answer. "She took off for parts unknown. Said she'd be back. I suspect she came up with a solution to the _dis_solution of the Raspberry Leopards."

The doctor's grin widened at the looks, ranging from skeptical to curious as the team pondered what this could mean. "And before anyone asks; I have no idea what she's thinking. But I've also realized you are quite the resourceful bunch. I don't think anything will surprise me."

After a few beats of silence, Reid returned his thoughts to whatever drama was being enacted upstairs. "How long should we wait before going back up, guys?" He was a little concerned about being the only one left with something to add to Hotch's intervention. Inwardly, he was debating whether to emulate Garcia, seeking his own private audience, or to drop the matter and stay safely in the background, under the radar.

Rossi brought his wrist up, checking his watch. "Well, Penelope said she'd let us know when she was done, but I wouldn't count on her making that a priority, considering how _intense_ things looked." He scratched his beard. "What'd'ya say we give them twenty minutes and then head up there?"

General nods and affirmative grunts greeted the suggestion. The group settled in, keeping track of the passage of time and listening for any alarming Garcia-ish sounds from upstairs.

xxxxxxx

The full twenty minutes hadn't passed when Prentiss was ringing for entry at the front door.

A little breathless, but sporting a mischievous smile, she darted in when Rossi admitted her, almost sprinting for the kitchen and the patio beyond, where Jack was still deep in conversation with his ersatz pack.

An audience of curious onlookers watched her shake out the contents of a small bag.

"I saw these the other day…" She glanced at J.J. "…when we were shopping for those baby monitors." Brandishing a packet of markers capped in lurid shades, indicating the color each would produce, Prentiss looked triumphant.

"They're for coloring on skin. They wash right off…_and_…I got these!" With a flourish, she pulled a set of stencils out, displaying them with pride. Grins began to spread throughout the group.

Each square of plastic was cut in designs meant to suggest a different animal. There were tiger stripes, dragon scales, and…the one that earned Prentiss several slaps on the back and congratulatory hugs…leopard spots.

"They can be leopards in every color of the rainbow…raspberry, blueberry…whatever…for as long as they want."

xxxxxxxx

The team hesitated just inside the doorway.

They'd waited as long…and longer…than they thought necessary. Prentiss had given Jack his Raspberry Leopard kit and shown him how to use it. Once the boy was absorbed in decorating his arms, the decision to check on Penelope and Aaron was a unanimous one.

Garcia was propped against Hotch's chest, past the stage of overt sobbing, but still a tearful bundle of self-recrimination for impugning her Liege's intellect. She continued to shudder against her boss even as a portion of her registered sympathy for what she considered his too-bony frame.

"Hotch?"

The Unit Chief looked up, giving the others the briefest shake of his head. Glances were exchanged, but the Boss-man's orders were obeyed. The agents spread into the room, but kept quiet, letting whatever was transpiring between Hotch and Garcia run its course.

After a few minutes, Penelope pushed herself upright, wiping at her nose, dabbing beneath her now-steamy lenses. Hotch craned his neck sideways and down, trying to engage his tech analyst's gaze. But she was ashamed, loathe to let anyone see the aftereffects of what she considered an unforgivable lapse in loyalty: calling her leader a 'stupid man.' And doing so at a very high volume.

"_H-how…_" It was all Hotch could articulate. His own throat had tightened in the presence of Garcia's grief. Frustrated at his body's failure, he kept one arm around the sniffling woman, groping for his phone with the other. When his fingers connected with it, he bent his head over the tiny screen in fierce concentration. He finally looked up, and, a heartbeat later, Garcia's phone chimed.

"Oh…" She gasped and dabbed some more, retrieving her pinkly-rhinestoned phone from a lace-trimmed pocket. She regarded the message with solemn, moist eyes.

"_I didn't hear you call me 'stupid.' So, how did it end?"_

When the text had been read, smiling through scattered hiccups and sniffs, she focused on Hotch.

"Thank you…thank you…" She cupped a hand against her leader's lean cheek. "Thank you, my Master of Chivalry, my beautiful White Knight." She regained a bit more composure. "And, well, I…I got kicked out and told I couldn't come back without an escort…a chaperone." She wiped her nose on her wrist, giving Hotch a mournful look. "And that's why I never came to see you alone, and why I never got a chance to explain before this." She darted a sheepish glance at her co-workers. "And why I kept bugging you guys to come with me to the hospital."

Still distrustful of his voice and his emotional control, Hotch turned back to his phone. Garcia was ready, waiting for the text this time.

"_Please don't feel bad. It's okay to yell at me. Just not too often. And I'll try not to do anything stupid like getting attacked by a serial killer again. But no guarantees. Are we good?"_

"Oh…sir!" Her face crumpled from the force of a fresh deluge of tears. "We're better than good…we're fantastic…amazing…spectacular…splendiferous…Did I say 'amazing' already?"

When Hotch nodded, Garcia followed the example set by Prentiss. She leaned in and planted a kiss on his temple, leaving a large, bright pink mark behind.

It bore a striking resemblance to the spot of a Raspberry Leopard.


	51. A Not So Simple 'Thank You'

Having branded Hotch with a very bright, very waxy lip print, Garcia made her snuffling, but cathartic, way back to the comforting arms of her team.

After seeing her into the embracing huddle of Prentiss and J.J., Morgan approached his boss. He studied the haggard face, concern shadowing his eyes. He knew how overwhelming his Baby Girl could be when her emotions broke out and stampeded over the object of their affection. Before speaking, he pulled a tissue from a box on the nightstand. When Morgan's hand came toward Hotch's face, instinct made him duck as though warding off a blow.

"Hey, man…just helpin'." Derek flashed him the tissue with its vibrant, magenta smear. Comprehension dawned in Hotch's tired eyes as he made the connection between the swatch of color and Garcia's impulsive kiss. Morgan gave another swipe to the perspiring brow, discarding the tissue before letting the tips of his fingers rest against Hotch's chest in a light, firm touch.

"You look all in Boss-man. I'm thinkin' we'll pack it up for the day." Morgan kept his voice low, private. "Reid's got something to say, but we can pick it up some other time." His hand flattened, patting the chest beneath it. "You've had enough for now."

Over Morgan's shoulder, Hotch could see his youngest agent's eyes tracking the exchange. They were typical Reid: large, expressive, awash with equal parts hope and anxiety. Those were the hallmarks with which this gifted, young man stumbled his clumsy way through most of his social contacts. Hotch was exhausted, but he couldn't send those eyes home without doing something to lessen the stress he saw in their depths.

He shook his head. "No. '_M_ ok_ay_."

"No, man. You're not." Morgan was almost nose to nose with the Unit Chief. "Reid'll understand. He can wait."

Rossi had been watching from the sidelines. When Hotch tensed, giving his head a more forceful shake, he stepped in, sensing a small frisson of conflict gaining momentum between the two alpha males. He kept his tone confidential and conciliatory, knowing that the emotional fragility Marty had explained as being part of Hotch's depleted state could as easily turn to anger as it had to tears. Rossi thought the intervention had gone well so far. He didn't want it to jump the tracks when they were so close to the end.

"Take a breath, both of you."

"Rossi, he's still really sick. You heard the doc."

Hotch's voice failed. He settled for bristling and the best glare he could muster under the circumstances.

The older agent sighed. "This isn't a contest, boys." With a gentle, but authoritative grip, he removed Morgan's hand from Hotch's chest. "It's alright, Derek."

"But…"

"If we don't let him do this, he probably won't be able to rest after you guys leave. As it is, he'll likely be running every word, every gesture over and over in his mind."

Morgan hesitated, mollified by the logic, although he would have preferred asking Dr. Palmer to dose the Unit Chief with something that would guarantee several hours of blissful oblivion.

"Damn it. Hotch…Hotch, someday you're gonna hafta put yourself first." Morgan recalled the child downstairs, painting himself in leopard spots. "If not for you, then for your kid."

The remark hit home. Hotch's eyes turned tragic. But when he saw the conflicted gaze of Spencer Reid still watching the exchange between his seniors, Hotch felt a modified kind of responsibility for the youngest of his agents. It was akin to, but not as depthless as, that which he felt for his own son.

"No. 'M g_onna_ talk t' R_eid_."

He'd wanted to express himself much more vigorously, but it occurred to him that whatever Reid had to say might require a response. Hotch thought it prudent to husband his strength in case he needed to communicate verbally. He was tired of being sick and incapacitated. He didn't want Reid's words to end up in a proverbial dumping ground. He wanted to offer a conversation, not merely an open ear.

Morgan's sigh was redolent of defeat. He backed off, but gave Reid a reprimanding glance as he returned to the small cluster with Garcia at its midst. _Pretty Boy, say what you've gotta say, but __**don't**__ tire him out any more than he already is._

Reid didn't notice. His eyes were fixed on Hotch, waiting for some signal conveying permission to approach.

Rossi waited until Morgan was on the opposite side of the room, busy tendering care and concern to Garcia, since Hotch had refused it.

"Aaron, are you sure? Everything Morgan said was true. You look like hell. We can stop this now and let you rest."

Hotch responded by beckoning Reid closer. Rossi acknowledged his friend's decision, joining the others and giving unimpeded access to the Unit Chief. As soon as the young agent took his place at his leader's bedside, all conversation surrounding Garcia ceased. Whether he wanted it or not, Spencer had an audience.

Hotch pulled himself more erect, lifting his chin and bracing himself against the headboard. Really, he was just trying to look alert and keep from pitching over onto his side into a feverish lump.

Reid sat on the edge of the mattress. Not as close to Hotch as his three female teammates had been, but still near enough to foster the illusion of intimate conversation. Hotch concentrated on keeping his eyes open, and prayed he wouldn't do something along the lines of what Garcia would consider stupid…like fainting, or descending into delirium.

A few minutes passed while Reid gathered his words and his courage. When he began, the quiet, earnest quality of his speech commanded attention.

"Hotch, what all these guys are talking about…you know…when you guys were, uh, _looking_ for me…Gideon talked to me about it." Reid broke eye contact for a moment, giving himself a chance to order his too-rapid, tumbling thoughts…and the terrible emotions that still permeated his reactions to being kidnapped and tortured.

"We always played chess, but for a few months after…that…he kind of made it a priority to spend more time with me than usual." A bashful grin flashed out. "We played a _lot_."

"Th_at_'s 'cause _Gid_eon cared ab_out_ you a _lot_."

Reid nodded, compressing his lips as remembrance of those sessions, and the words that were shared, played out to perfection in his eidetic memory. He pulled himself back from recollections as rich in detail as the present.

"I dunno. Maybe." Before Hotch could argue the point, Reid hurried on. "But he talked about that day….About _you_ that day."

Hotch gave his head a small shake. He knew he wasn't his usual sharp self, but all he could dredge up from that terrible time was an overriding feeling of dread, and the tremendous wash of relief when he'd figured out the message his youngest agent was trying to feed his team. In the aftermath, Hotch had felt pride and respect for Reid's tenacious ability to survive, to think his way out of a situation that would have sent most of them to their graves.

Reid saw the need for elaboration in his leader's puzzled eyes.

"Gideon said that you were beating yourself up because you thought all you did was take advantage of me…of my brain…that you didn't think you'd given me anything in return."

The room was silent. Reid hadn't mentioned this to anyone. It had remained confidential between him and Jason Gideon. And now, in Gideon's absence, it was a lonely secret. The young agent was tendering it like an offering on the altar dedicated to the renewal of Aaron Hotchner. Reid rushed on.

"He said you felt you should have given me some kind of training, something that would have helped me withstand a situation that involved torture and…and…" Reid swallowed. "…having to face death."

Hotch's eyes squeezed shut. He leaned his head back, rubbing a hand over his face, letting it linger, covering his mouth. _Yes. Yes, I remember that. Dear God, I remember._

"He said you _had_ taught me; that you teach by example…_lead_ by example." Reid's voice took on a tinge of sad amazement. "And you questioned what kind of example that could be…as though it came from someone so flawed, it couldn't possibly be worthwhile."

Hotch opened his eyes when he felt Reid's tentative touch on his arm.

"H-o-t-c-h…I learned everything I needed to get through that from you. I mean, there's no way anyone could have known what would happen. What got me through _was_ your example. The example you've shown over the course of years. It's nothing you can teach in any kind of deliberate manner, because it's innate. It just comes from inside you…from _being_ you."

Reid's eyes began to fill. His voice trailed off, becoming smaller, as though speaking to himself…as though the words weren't meant to convince anyone of anything…as though they were simple signs of wonder at having been gifted with skills and tools of immeasurable value.

"I didn't give up because of you. I'm _alive_ because of you."

Then, for the second time in his life, Agent Reid dragged his stoic, unemotional boss into a crushing hug.

"Thank you, Hotch. That's all I really wanted to say…just 'thank you'…"


	52. Scent Sense

"You folks about done?"

Marty's calm voice broke the spell Reid's words had wrought. Heads turned to see the doctor standing in the doorway, a small, towel-wrapped bundle in one hand.

"I'm asking as Aaron's physician. I'd like to check a few things…" His smile was apologetic in case his presence was intrusive. "…_if_ you're finished, that is."

Rossi grinned. "And that's your diplomatic way of telling us we _are_ done, and you want your patient back…right?"

"Well, he _does_ need rest, and he _does_ need to take in a lot more in the way of nourishment, and…" Marty glanced toward the stairs. "…Jack nodded off, so it seemed like a good time for a changing of the guard, and…"

"And you want your patient back."

"And I want my patient back."

"Sounds good to me." Morgan could read the signs of illness and exhaustion ever more clearly in his leader's face and posture. As Reid let Hotch out of his embrace, Morgan came up on his far side; the place in which he'd stationed himself at the beginning, taking a stance as protector and moderator. His voice grew softer, hand giving one last squeeze to the sick man's shoulder.

"Get some rest, man. I'd tell you to take care of yourself, but you never pay attention. So instead I'm telling you to let the Doc look after you." Morgan's smile made a brief appearance. "And no texting us about work. We'll bring you up to date when we see you." He met Reid's eyes. "C'mon, Pretty Boy. Let's give Boss-man his space."

Reid nodded, wiping at his eyes, hoping no one noticed.

"Sure." He stood, looking down at Hotch as though he might have some parting words. But he'd already said what was in his heart. So he followed Morgan's example and patted a shoulder as a parting gesture.

A motley chorus of 'goodbyes' and 'take cares' interspersed with instructions to eat and sleep and get well accompanied the rest of the team's departure. Morgan brought up the rear. He hesitated in the doorway, looking over his shoulder.

"Take good care of him, Doc." His eyes met Hotch's. "We need him."

Of all the words that had cascaded over him that day, those three were arguably the ones Hotch most wanted to hear. He would hold them close, drawing secret comfort from them for a long time.

xxxxxxx

"Well…" Marty took a seat on the mattress at Hotch's side. "While you were up here learning what a fine man you are, whether or not you believe it, I was downstairs learning what a fine, young man you're raising."

The tactic worked. Hotch's tired eyes glowed with warmth at the thought of Jack, the best thing he'd accomplished in his entire life. Some of the tension he'd been unaware he was holding during the intervention, melted. But Rossi had been right: he couldn't really relax. His teammates' words and images looped through his mind in constant repetition.

"Lie back, son. Try to let it all go for a while." The doctor pulled the covers down a few inches. Reaching across his patient's body, he placed the towel-wrapped bundle he'd brought against the area containing Hotch's rib injury. There was a reflexive jerk at the touch of the fabric.

"Too cold?" Marty raised an eyebrow. "Never did get a chance to find out if ice would feel better than heat. So lie still. Let it work for a few minutes." Hotch's hand came up, intending to free the doctor from having to hold the pack against him.

"No." Marty pushed his hand away. "Relax. Don't help. If you want to fall asleep…feel free." He continued, muttering more to himself than to his patient. "Needs a nap. Then he has _got_ to eat….Can't remember when I've had to deal with such a poor appetite….Not good….Not good at all…"

Hotch obeyed, closing his eyes. But it was one of those times when he was too tired to sleep. His mind didn't have the energy to break free, so it kept running the same words and patterns over and over and over again.

Like a hamster wheel.

xxxxxx

The team milled about in the kitchen, getting a sense from each other as to how the intervention had gone. For the most part, impressions were favorable. Nibbling on some of Garcia's Goodies, things were winding down when Prentiss' head snapped up, looking in the direction of the stairs.

"Damn. Forgot something." She wiped crumbs from her fingers, and sprinted her way back toward the foyer. "I gotta give Hotch something. But don't wait for me."

"But…" Reid's puzzled voice followed her.

"No. Really. Go on. Don't wait."

Glances were exchanged as the sound of stylish boots rapping their way up marble steps floated back.

"We _have_ to wait." Reid explained to the empty place where Prentiss had been a moment before. "You're our ride, Emily. You've got the keys."

xxxxxx

Prentiss reigned herself in when she saw the doctor had closed the bedroom door. She gave it a light tap, edging it open without waiting for permission.

_Nothing in there I haven't seen before_, she reasoned.

In the dim light, she saw Dr. Palmer sitting close to his patient, holding something against his side. He looked up, wondering who had entered. Hotch opened his eyes and craned his neck around, also curious about the intruder's identity.

Prentiss didn't know why, but it seemed appropriate to speak in a hushed tone.

"Sorry to interrupt."

"It's alright, young lady." Marty smiled. "I thought you people were done for the day." He raised a brow, only mildly reprimanding. "But I _would_ like Aaron to try to rest." He looked back at Hotch's weary eyes, tracking Prentiss, refusing to close…and sighed in mock defeat. "But he doesn't seem to be of the same mind. Not yet, anyway."

"Well, it figures." Emily picked up the gift bag she'd brought earlier, abandoned in a corner, forgotten in the midst of the intervention. "He's the same way after a case. Everyone else catches a few zees, but…not Hotch. Every time anyone looks up, he's wide awake, working away on something…or…" She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper despite the person under discussion being mere inches away, listening to every word. "…or…_brooding_ about stuff. Ya know?"

The doctor's lips compressed, trying to stifle the smile at Hotch's expense. He matched Prentiss' tone, adopting an air of sharing confidences in complete privacy. "I _know_. Won't rest. Won't eat…"

"I _know_!..." Emily shook her head.

Marty mirrored her, throwing his hands up in a gesture of frustrated defeat. "I _know_!..."

" 'S en_ough_. St_op_ it." Hotch's gravelly voice, breaking like a pre-teen's still managed to command obedience. Gently teasing obedience…but he'd take what he could get at this point.

Relenting, Prentiss sat on the bed near her boss' feet. "Sorry, Hotch." Her mischievous grin told him she wasn't. Not in the least. But she mastered herself and continued on in a more respectful manner.

"I _do_ know that your mind works overtime, though." She reached into the large bag, digging deep. "So I got you some stuff to help distract you…maybe amuse you…and I think _this_ might help you relax." There was no humor, only concern, in her voice now. "At least, that's what it's _supposed_ to do. You'll have to let me know."

Marty took what looked like a flat, crescent-shaped pillow from her extended hand, turning it over, inspecting it from different angles. "What is it?"

"It's aromatherapy." Prentiss grimaced. "I know, I know…it's not _your_ kind of medical science, but Garcia swears by it, and I thought as long as we have Hotch flat on his back and helpless…"

"H_ey_!"

"Shhhhhhh, Aaron. She's right. You are."

Prentiss' grin had returned. "It's filled with lavender, eucalyptus, cloves and I don't remember what else. But…" She took hold of an edge of the pillow, squeezing it, releasing a faint crunching sound and a light burst of fragrance. "…you squish it and that rubs the herbs and stuff together. The scent's supposed to relax you."

"Hmmmm…" Marty glanced at Hotch, then crunched and pummeled the pillow with fervor. "C'mon, son…give it a try." He slipped the aromatic cushion behind Hotch's head, adjusting it until it rested solidly against his neck and upper shoulders.

Prentiss watched as the Unit Chief gave an experimental sniff, smiled and took a deeper breath. He fixed a grateful look on Emily. "I _c'n_ sm_ell_ it! H_ave_n't b_een_ able to sm_ell_ f'r d_ay_s."

"What else is in there?" The doctor pointed his chin at the bag sitting on the floor near Prentiss' feet.

"Just some stuff. Nothing important." After watching Hotch breathe for a few minutes, Prentiss stood. "I'm gonna go; let you get on with…whatever. See you guys later. Feel better, Hotch."

"Mmmmm…th_anks_, Pr_en_tiss…"

At the door, she glanced back. Hotch's eyes were closed, the corners of his lips upturned in a faint smile.

When her eyes connected with the doctor's, he gave her a much wider one.


	53. Butterfly Dreams

Marty watched Hotch descend into a restless doze.

It wasn't deep, restorative sleep, but he hoped it might progress in that direction. His main concern was that the man had managed, once again, to avoid food; a state deserving of additional regret when he went downstairs to find Rossi gazing in wonderment at Garcia's wall of Tupperware. It was an activity the agent indulged in several times a day.

Marty suspected the packed, post-Garcia refrigerator had become Dave's Happy Place.

He wished Aaron had one. If he did, it was well-concealed; too secretive to have been discovered by those closest to him. The doctor sighed.

_If the man's Safe Place is pain. I hope that's not his Happy Place, too. _Human beings were puzzles that could only be solved by assembling the pieces that had broken away from pain and grief and trauma. When one had experienced as much as Aaron had, sometimes the pieces were just too small, too fragmented for any patching procedure to succeed.

_All the King's horses, and all the King's men…_ he felt an echo of sorrow, an unconscious imitation of Garcia's reaction upon seeing Hotch hospitalized.

"Team went home?"

Rossi startled back from the delicious land into which Garcia's gifts tended to transport him.

"Uh, yeah…yeah…They're still on the job, even if their boss is absent." Rossi shook his head, one hand rubbing his beard as he considered the situation. "You know, as soon as he gets his voice back, he's gonna be on the phone, pestering them for updates…trying to get them to bring case files to him."

"Little obsessive, is he?"

"A-a-a-a-a…." Rossi shrugged, one hand raised in a dismissive gesture. "Who isn't?" But after a moment's consideration, his eyes grew thoughtful. "There was a time when his ex-wife argued with him about that, though."

"Yeah?"

"Uh-huh. Said the job was what he _did_, not who he _was_."

A pause ensued while Marty thought over the two sides. "What'd he think?"

"Aaron said catching the bad guys _is_ who he is."

"Hmmmmm…" The official physician's hum told Rossi his friend wasn't in immediate agreement.

"Marty?...You have an opinion you'd like to share?"

The doctor temporized, chewing on the inside of one cheek. "Well….if you insist…"

"Like I could ever shut you up," Rossi mumbled under his breath, but calculatedly loud enough for Marty to catch.

A wide grin accompanied the doctor's response. "I think Aaron needs to look deeper. He's _not_ his job. But he _is_ someone who's compelled to rescue victims…to _fix_ things. Any job that fulfills that need would do. Not just this one."

Rossi had been tidying up in the wake of the team's visit. He stopped, turning to confront his friend. For a moment, all he did was stare. "He's saving himself. On every case. Over and over." His gaze went inward, unfocused. "I'm not surprised." He looked back at Marty. "On some level I must have known that all along."

Marty glanced out at the patio. Jack had awakened from his nap. Every visible square inch of skin was artificially leoparded. Having used up the options for decoration on his own body, he was continuing the application of spots on Mudgie's blonde fur. Marty sent up a silent prayer of thanks for Fudge's dark coat, which apparently presented an unsatisfactory canvas for leopard-enhancement.

"Dave, I bet if you dig deep enough, you'll find the same compulsion in every member of your team. Maybe in every field agent in the Bureau."

"But it's different with Aaron. More extreme. More…worrisome."

The doctor nodded. "His compulsion is stronger, because…"

"Because his abuse and his pain are greater."

"That'd be my guess." He sighed. "It's a sad, old world. Boy's compensating the best he can, but probably doesn't even realize his motives." Marty continued to watch Jack at play, unable to keep a smile from surfacing.

A fragment of something J.J. had passed on to him played across Rossi's mind. _She asked him why he chose the BAU…and he couldn't answer. He even acknowledged that he was still working that out._ Dave felt his throat tighten. _Oh, Aaron. I know something you don't know…_

The sing-song cadence of the childhood taunt, despite the gravity of its subject, brought Hotch's son to mind. Rossi exhaled a bitter breath for the father and looked out the window at the son.

"Oh, no….Jack! _Jack_!"

Marty's chuckle played in the background as Dave ran out to rescue his mostly-lavender, mostly-spotted Mudge-leopard.

xxxxxx

Eventually Rossi found himself at Hotch's bedside.

He leaned over and took a cautious sniff in the vicinity of the aromatherapy pillow. _Not bad. But it's not working as well as one might wish._

The Unit Chief was restless; small movements of his head and lips indicating troubled sleep. Rossi rested the back of one hand against Hotch's brow. _Still too warm._

He studied the lean face, wondering at all the hiding places and secrets tucked away behind the façade; so well-concealed that even Aaron didn't know how deeply they affected him. Rossi debated with himself about revealing some of Marty's theories to his friend. He wasn't sure of the value of being told such information. _Aside from shock value, that is._ He wondered if it might be better to let Hotch discover these things about himself in his own time. But there was a good chance he never would. Unless someone helped him…led him in the right direction. Rossi wasn't sure that was anybody's business, except Hotch's.

He sighed. This wasn't an easy riddle. A man's soul was involved. _And I don't need to come up with any answers tonight._

In the end, Dave settled for brushing the dark hair back from the forehead and humming tuneless comfort to his friend.

He wasn't aware when it resolved itself into a melody. But when he recognized the sad lullaby about horses promised to a crying baby, lying in a meadow with bees and butterflies tormenting his eyes…Dave felt the timeless sorrow of the song strangely appropriate.

Hotch must have agreed. Tension ebbed; agitated movements replaced by stillness. After a time, Rossi gave his friend's cheek a final pat, leaving him deep in the heavy sleep that was what he needed so badly.

xxxxxx

Hotch was dreaming.

This time there were no mirrors. No smoke. No hands delivering touches of hate or accusation. In a way, what he dreamt now was more disturbing. The hate and anger he could understand; knew what events birthed them…what fears within himself were being given voice and presence.

But the new dreams…bewildered him. Their genesis was a mystery.

Someone was holding him. Someone so large that he was engulfed. Yet rather than feeling overwhelmed, he felt so…_safe…safe…safe…_He was warm, and a rich fragrance enfolded him. _Lavender, child. It's what we-uns plants fer luck. Lord knows, we be needin' it more than most. _The same voice like dark honey sang to him. Sang to him about time past when women took their babies into the fields, because they had no choice. Sang to him about the strength born of endless, wearying sorrow. It was her song. Taken from her people's terrible history. And she shared it with this small, hurt boy whose need for love transcended time and race and circumstance.

'_Bees and butterflies…_'

'_Flittin' 'round his eyes…_'

And then Hotch was somewhere…some-_when_…else. Bigger. The warmth was still with him, but smaller, less all-encompassing, more precious. And the butterflies were landing on him. Landing on his arms, his face. He brushed at them, shooing them off. And every time he did, they'd giggle. Fluttering away with a musical laughter he loved hearing. Returning to feather his skin with the lightest of touches, only to flee in a ripple of childlike mirth again and again.

Strange dreams. But he didn't mind them. So Hotch slept on until morning.

xxxxxxx

When he woke up, Hotch took a moment to orient himself. The dreams had been powerful enough to make it necessary.

He smiled, knowing the feel of Jack by his side. He raised his head, but couldn't see much detail in the darkened room. The aromatic pillow pulled his attention for a minute. Something about the scent brought back an echo of the dreams.

He gave his head a rueful shake. _Scent memory. It triggered something. Too bad I can't remember what or why._

He slipped out of bed, taking extra care not to disturb his son. He padded his barefoot way across the carpet to the bathroom, trying to hold on to the edges of the dreams he'd had. He didn't want to lose them entirely. Not yet.

Once in the bathroom, he closed the door before switching on the lights, again to avoid waking Jack. He was preoccupied with vague impressions of fragrance, warmth, and a melody buried so far back in his past that all he could recall was its elusive sadness and, curiously, a feeling of being cared for…of mattering to someone. Bemused, Hotch crossed to the sink. Finally focusing on the present, he glanced up into the mirror mounted on the wall.

Hotch's jaw dropped.

His face…and now that he looked…his arms…and when he raised the hem of his t-shirt…part of his stomach…were covered with pink and purple leopard spots. They had been executed with skill; placed with artistry. Hotch stared.

And then he remembered the feel of insects he'd tried to brush away…and the childish giggles that accompanied their butterfly-light touch each time they fled.

_Jack. He made me even __**more**__ of a Raspberry Leopard._

Aaron couldn't help it. He laughed. Because the mystery of at least one of the dreams was solved.

And because he loved his son enough _not_ to wash off the spots, but to leave them for all the world to see.


	54. Path to the Past

Hotch laughed until his cough resurfaced and a dull ache in his left side reminded him that he needed to take everything, even mirth, at an easier pace.

As much as he wanted to leave his new leopard spots undisturbed, he decided to risk shaving, reasoning that his beard would soon overgrow Jack's handiwork anyway. Nonetheless, he was relieved when he found that the marks rinsed away when subjected to a little shaving cream and water.

Hotch always felt better after cleaning himself up, but even this minimal effort left him weak and lightheaded. He gave a frustrated growl at his own infirmity, but perked up when he realized his voice was better. After a few experimental vocalizations, he made his way back to bed and Jack.

En route, he had another pleasant realization. He'd flipped the light on in the bathroom without wincing. He eyes weren't as sensitive. Encouraged, he twitched back one side of the heavy, jacquard drapes covering the windows. The pale, morning sun made him squint, but didn't hurt. So he bared all the windows, washing the sickroom in a soft light that lifted his spirits.

With dawn pouring over the bed, he inspected his cub. Spotted. As artificially and identically as on his own skin. From head to foot, as far as Hotch could tell. _From ear to paw_, he corrected himself, getting into the spirit of the game, since dermal evidence suggested it was still one Jack wanted to play. Hotch crouched over his son and put his recovering voice to the test, growling and snarling and worrying the cub's ear with his teeth until it rolled over, gave a joyful squeal, and thwarted the big-cat attack with a barrage of hugs and cub-growls.

xxxxxx

When Marty arrived, bearing yet another sumptuous, overladen tray, he found himself in the regal presence of the Leopard Chief. The Chief's lone subject and heir apparent, lounging at his side, was touching up his leader's freshly shaven face.

The doctor pressed his lips together, doing his best to maintain the respectful air proper when addressing royalty…or a tribal chieftain…or the king of the jungle…_or __**whatever**__ these two are._ He set the tray down, taking his cue from the manner in which Aaron was looking down the length of his aristocratic nose at one and all.

"Your Highness."

Ensconced against his throne of pillows, Hotch arched one expressive brow at the interloper, clearly _not_ of the same exalted lineage as those bearing the mark of the Tribe. The doctor would have asked him how he was feeling, but the smaller leopard was bouncing with eager anticipation.

"Now, Daddy! Do it _now_!"

Hotch had been saving himself up ever since he realized his voice was coming back. But now, at the behest of his kingdom-of-one he let loose with the mightiest roar of which he was capable. It was a bit scratchy and cracked in a few places, but it told the doctor that his patient was mending.

It delighted Jack, being proof positive that the rich traditions of the Raspberry Leopards would survive even the capricious nature of measles spots.

Poppi had been right: the Tribe's identity transcended mere physical appearance.

xxxxxxx

Later that day, while Jack was downstairs pitting his strength in a wrestling match against the saintly patience…and complete indifference… of Mudgie and Fudge, Rossi took the opportunity to touch bases with Hotch.

When he walked in on him, the Unit Chief was propped up against his pillows amid the detritus of his son's toys and puzzles. His eyes were closed, head turned to the side, breathing deeply of the aromatherapy cushion Prentiss had brought him. Rossi could tell he was awake, but someplace far away. He kept his voice low, not wanting to startle his friend.

"Aaron?" No visible reaction. Rossi reached out, tapping a finger against a jutting collarbone. "Aaron."

Hotch returned from parts unknown. But he did it in such a gentle, easy way that Rossi was the surprised one. Usually, Hotch jolted. Usually, he came back battle-ready and wary. Not this time.

_He's completely relaxed. Whatever he was thinking…wherever he was…there was no tension. It was a Safe Place._ The thought that one existed, even if it was just in Aaron's mind or memory, gave Rossi more hope for the man than he'd felt in years; ever since his marriage disintegrated, beginning the chain of events that caused his life to become a theatre of tragedy, akin to the one in which he'd grown up.

Rossi smiled at the open, unguarded eyes of his friend. "Where were you just now?"

Hotch shook his head, ending with his nose against the fragrant pillow. "I dunno."

"You sure?"

The dark eyes stared, but…differently. There was no challenge, no glare. _His defenses are down. He's letting me look into him without imposing any filters._

"Something about…" Hotch faded, puzzled.

"What? 'Something about' what?"

"I dunno," he repeated, shrugging and breathing deeply of the scented mixture cushioning his head.

Rossi's eyes narrowed, gaging Hotch's reaction and the opportunity it might offer.

"Close your eyes, Aaron."

"What?" He sounded distant. Already the scent was pulling him away.

"Close your eyes."

But the pillow hadn't had enough time to subdue him, so, being Hotch, he did the exact opposite, subjecting Rossi to, if not the glare, then a long, searching look.

"Why?"

Rossi sighed, groping for the most persuasive words he could find. "Because we might discover something worth knowing about your past?"

The filters snapped in place. The shutters came down. "I don't wanna go hiking through my past, Dave."

Feeling a little ashamed of the ploy he was about to use, but reasoning it was for Hotch's own good, Rossi held his friend's now defensive gaze. "It would mean a lot to _me_, if you would, Aaron."

Hotch faltered, unable to dismiss any action he might take that would benefit another. Still, suspicion was at the forefront. "It's _my_ past, Dave. Not yours. And there's nothing that'll change it." Hotch scanned the older man's face, finding only concern and conflict about…_what?_ So he delved deeper.

"Why would it mean so much to you to lead me through cognitive recall that personal?"

Rossi kneaded his knuckles, debating…and came to a decision. "Aaron, over the last few days you've been a very sick boy." Hotch gave one slow nod of acknowledgement. "I stayed by your side for the worst of it, and I heard some very disturbing things."

Hotch swallowed. "Okay. So?"

Rossi's lips compressed. "Full disclosure?" Another slow nod. "Alright, then." He leaned closer, engaging eyes that now had a shadow of doubt…possibly fear…in them.

"I listened to a child who's known more torture than love, beg for it to stop." Color drained from Hotch's already pale face. Rossi reached out, laying a palm along one leopard-spotted cheek. "It would do an old man's heart good to know there was something else in that child's life. Even just one moment or one person who helped him survive."

Hotch's voice was small, strained. "Why?"

"Because I love him."

Rossi saw the signs of stress. The lip being chewed; the increased rate of respiration. But after a moment, Hotch relented, settling back, snuggling into the scented pillow by instinct, as though it were an anchor that would keep him from getting too lost in his private sea of horrors. He gave one last, troubled look at Rossi and then, in a demonstration of reluctant trust, closed his eyes.

Rossi spoke in a smooth, even, monotonous tone. "Breathe, Aaron. Deep, even breaths."

Hotch inhaled the scent. It was complex, rich, but…somehow…incomplete. It wanted something else to be exactly right. But if he didn't think about it, it could almost complete itself.

Rossi watched his friend's chest expand and contract. When it slowed, he judged the time right. "What do you smell, Aaron?"

Without the force of effort behind it, Hotch's still scratchy voice sounded fragile. "Lavender... For luck."

"Luck?"

"By the door. Planted…for luck."

Rossi didn't have a clue what this meant, or where it might lead. But it was something. _And all journeys begin with a single step. _"What else? What do you feel?"

"Warm…" And then the word Rossi had most hoped for…somewhere, _anywhere_, in Aaron's past. "…safe. Warm 'n' safe."

"What else?" Hotch seemed to have a particular affinity for scents. Rossi pursued that angle. "What else do you smell?"

A long pause, then… "Soap. Sunshine."

"Sunshine?" Rossi didn't think light had an odor. It must mean something else in Aaron's world.

A slow smile touched Hotch's lips. "Pillowcases. She'd hang them outdoors to dry on sunny days. They smelled…" He ended on a sigh. "…wonderful."

Rossi went forward with the tenderness, the delicacy of thistle down. "Is she there now? Can you see her?"

Hotch's deep exhale was the kind that takes all tension with it, leaving only placid calm in its wake. "No."

This surprised Rossi. He'd thought by Aaron's reaction that whoever 'she' was, she was close…very close. "No?" He was almost whispering. "Why can't you see her?"

"Holding me." He sighed again, nestling closer to the pillow. "Always held me so I was almost buried in her." His smile widened, a reflection of bliss. Then, so slowly it was an almost imperceptible transition, Hotch's expression…blanked…reverting to the stoicism that was his hallmark. The eyes that opened and looked into Rossi's were part wonder, part sorrow, and touched with confusion.

"Felicia." Said so softly, reverently, it was almost a prayer.

"Oh, God, Dave. I haven't thought of her in…" The eyes closed again, forcing out the tear Rossi hadn't known was forming. "…Oh,God…not since I was a kid."

Rossi was beginning to wonder if this foray into the past had been a good idea after all.


	55. Felicia

"Felicia."

Hotch breathed the name. Rossi couldn't tell if it was said with longing, or with the stunned reaction more appropriate to a ghost sighting. He watched his friend push away from the scented pillow that had triggered his memories, and swing his legs over the side of the mattress, leaning over, elbows braced on knees.

"Easy, Aaron…you're still running a pretty high fever. It's not time to vacate the bed yet."

Hotch didn't hear. Focused on the floor, his brain was reopening paths that had long gone dormant. He showed no inclination to move any further, nor to speak. Rossi frowned, scooting his chair directly in front of his friend. Knee to knee, he assumed the same position as Hotch. Rossi bent his neck, trying to see into the downcast face.

He was looking for a clue as to how to proceed. At first he'd been thrilled that there was someone in Hotch's childhood who might have brought some love and kindness to an otherwise emotionally starved boy. Now he wasn't so sure.

Hotch's reaction was more of shock than joy. And Rossi was beginning to kick himself for setting the whole mess in motion without doing a little more research, a little more probing on his own before subjecting Aaron to…_to what? Ghosts? Demons? Something so horrific he repressed it until his good friend Dave decided to exhume it?_ Rossi's heart clenched. _And I goaded him into participating by telling him I love him. Now I might have given him __**another**__ reason to be leery of initiating affection._

The team knew their leader never reached out physically. Hug him, and he'd return the gesture in spades. But he kept himself separate and inviolate; careful never to be the one to open his arms first; never to show a need for intimacy. Hotch accepted the invitation, but never extended one.

Rossi also wondered if Hotch was such a lonely soul in part because he'd made a twisted boyhood connection between being taught that parents love their children, and simultaneously experiencing the cruel reality of his own parentage. He hated to think that the man might have developed a subconscious equivalency between love and hurt. It could be a partial explanation for the suspicion that pain was his Safe Place.

Rossi also knew one of Hotch's greatest dreads was being alone. He felt himself so flawed, he needed the tempering presence of another to offset what he considered his own weaknesses. Once he'd married, Hotch thought that particular dragon had been slain. But it had been resurrected and invigorated by Haley's desertion and subsequent death. As strong as the façade Hotch presented, his solitary state provided prime breeding ground for his doubts about his abilities. Especially as a father. He'd only voiced them once to Rossi. But for him to have spoken at all, meant those doubts had explosive power in his psyche.

'_I don't think I have the tools to help my son.' He said that to me, and I repay him for his trust by taking him on a trip into the past without considering the damage it might do._ Rossi sent up a silent prayer that whoever this woman was, she hadn't left yet another emotional scar as a keepsake to add to Aaron's collection.

"Felicia." Hotch still sounded distant.

"Aaron." Rossi risked a touch on the chin to bring his friend's eyes in line with his own. "Aaron, are you okay?"

"I…uh, yeah…sure." Hotch sat a little straighter. Rossi followed suit.

When he lapsed into distracted silence again, Rossi gave a gentle push. "I need more than that, Aaron. C'mon…I'm feeling a little guilty here for leading you someplace I maybe should've left alone."

The key word was 'need.' Hotch couldn't ignore being needed.

"No, Dave. 'S okay." The scratchy voice made it hard for Rossi to tell if he was sincere. "It's just I don't know how I could have forgotten her." He finally looked fully present. "She deserved so much better than that." He shook his head. "Felicia."

"So…it sounds like she was a good part of your past?" Rossi knew he was trying to tip the scales to soothe himself. If Hotch had been a witness in the field, he never would have made such a leading suggestion. Still, he was relieved when the Unit Chief nodded.

"Yeah. I think she loved me. Or maybe she just took care of all broken animals." Rossi's heart clenched at hearing Hotch describe himself that way. But he stayed quiet, reluctant to interrupt.

Hotch took a deep breath. Pulling himself up, he searched Rossi's eyes. "You sure you wanna hear this?"

"Probably more than you want to tell it."

"Okay." Hotch glanced at the Bat-Cam. "That thing's not working, is it? I don't want Jack to hear any of this. Some stuff he doesn't need to know."

"It's controlled from the monitor, but Jack's downstairs with Marty." Seeing his friend's doubt, Rossi scooped up the little camera unit. He walked into the bathroom, returning empty-handed and closing the door behind him. "There. No way can that thing spy on us now."

Hotch nodded, but didn't seem in any hurry to continue.

"Aaron. It's me. I already know things were bad for you." Knowing Hotch's inner conflict…needing comfort, but never asking for it…Rossi sat beside him, draping an arm across his back; ready to hug or pat or do whatever was necessary.

When Hotch finally began, his throaty voice was barely above a whisper.

"Her name was Felicia." He gave Rossi a sideways glance. "You have to understand the kind of town where I grew up, Dave. It was small and Southern and insular. One foot always in the past. While civil rights were sweeping the rest of the country, we hardly felt a ripple."

"And Felicia was black?"

Hotch nodded. "She was also kind and braver than I could understand at that age."

"How old were you?"

A shrug preceded the terrible answer. "Don't really know. Birthdays were some of the worst times for me. Brought me to…_his_…attention more than usual if anyone made a fuss. It was safer if they passed by without any recognition." Rossi watched unmerited shame pass across Hotch's face. "It wasn't until I was older that I kept track of the years…the way real people do."

_**Real**__ people?_ Rossi's stomach dropped at the distinction Hotch had made between himself and the rest of the world. The arm around his friend's shoulders squeezed once and released.

"Anyway, I scoped out the whole neighborhood for secret places…hiding places. The best ones were on other people's property; places where, uh, _someone_…couldn't just barge in unnoticed. Sometimes I had to…get away…when it was really cold or stormy, so the _really_ best places offered some kind of shelter from the weather."

Rossi's arm hugged tighter, and a little bit longer.

"One of the neighbors had an outbuilding just for laundry. There were a washing machine and dryer inside. It wasn't heated, but it was far enough away from the main house that sometimes I could get away with starting up the dryer and huddling up close to it for warmth." Hotch ducked his head. "That's where she found me."

"Felicia?"

"Yeah." Rossi watched as Aaron's eyes went distant again. "I was so tired and I couldn't go back, so I guess I fell asleep curled up on the floor as close to the dryer as I could get. I was so scared she was going to kick me out or, worse, take me back to my Dad's house." The small laugh that escaped Hotch was dry and mirthless. "But the hired help knows more about what goes on in households than anyone…even the people who live there.

"Felicia picked me up and held me like I'd never been held before." Hotch glanced at Rossi. "Like I mattered. Like I was worth saving. Turned out she fed the neighborhood cats, so she just kind of included me with the other strays. She'd sneak me food, and blankets when she couldn't stay with me and keep me warm in her arms. She knew who I was and why I was hiding, but she couldn't do anything about it. Not and keep her job. That's how it was back then. And my Dad was a powerful man. No one went against him and didn't pay for it several times over.

"Best of all, Felicia talked to me. She'd hold me and tell me it wouldn't always be like this. That someday I'd be free, but until then she'd look out for me." The breath Hotch drew was ragged.

Rossi's voice was quiet, respectful of the confidence into which he'd been taken. "What happened to her? Do you know?"

Hotch nodded, chewing on his bottom lip until he could find the words. "She stood up to him. She couldn't watch anymore and she stood up to him." One sob was quickly suppressed.

Rossi's arm tightened yet again, holding steady.

"One day I didn't get away in time. When she found me in the laundry building, I guess I looked pretty bad. All I remember now is there was blood on my clothes, and I was scared I'd get in more trouble for, you know…bleeding…making a mess…So I asked Felicia if she could help me wash my shirt so I wouldn't get hit again." Hotch shook his head. "She cleaned me up, put my clothes in the washer and told me to stay there. And then a few minutes later I heard her. Hell, the whole damn neighborhood heard her." Hotch's smile was more of a grimace.

"She stood on my father's porch and shouted until he came to the door. Then she cursed him up and down. She said that she was ashamed of the whole town, if they could stand by and watch what Mr. Hotchner did to his family, especially his boy Aaron. I was terrified. But the fact that this old, black woman was giving what for to mighty Mr. Hotchner must've shocked the hell out of my Dad."

Hotch's smile was still sad, but a little more genuine. "He didn't lay a hand on me for a whole week after that. But…" This time the sob couldn't be held down. It doubled Hotch over.

"But Felicia was gone."

"They fired her?" Rossi was having a hard time keeping his voice level.

"Must've. I never saw her again."

"I'm sorry, Aaron."

"She must've been forced to move on. She sacrificed everything. After that no one in town would've dared hire her. And it bought me a week's reprieve. And I forgot her."

This time Rossi used both arms, hugging Hotch as tightly as he could. Bringing the dark head down against his chest. Hoping that it would make him feel as safe and loved and worthy as when Felicia, the soul saving grace of his childhood, had held him close.

And because a damaged, little boy never got the chance to say it, Rossi sent up the words on his behalf.

_Thank you, Felicia. Thank you for the light you brought into a dark place. Thank you for your heart and your courage. Thank you for helping my Aaron survive. Thank you._


	56. Angels Among Us

Hotch made an abortive attempt to struggle free.

But Rossi was determined to hold on for as long as it took; until the memories sifted down to a calmer place; until the world became a kinder place; until the muscles in his arms gave out.

"Give it up, Aaron. I'm not letting go."

The response was muffled against his chest. "'F I wasn' sick…"

"But you _are_ sick. _And_ you're a guest in my home. So you have to do what I say." Rossi gave one extra-snug squeeze. "Be still."

After a while, the tension in Hotch's muscles eased. He surrendered and let himself be held. His voice was a little less choked when he spoke again.

"Dave?"

"Hmmmm?"

"Thank you."

Rossi sighed, not sure he was deserving of any gratitude. "I'm sorry, Aaron. I'm sorry you had such a hard time growing up. I'm sorry you forgot Felicia. I'm sorry I made you remember her in such a half-assed, clumsy way."

An almost-chuckle bounced the body in his embrace. "_Now_ who's 'pologizing f'r stuff that isn't h's fault?"

Rossi pulled back enough to see the dark head pressed against him. "Well, wha'd'ya know. Some of the things I've been telling you managed to break through and lodge somewhere in the crevices of that stubborn brain after all." He pressed his lips against the dark hair for a heartbeat. "Atta boy. Just keep absorbing my wisdom and you'll be fine."

Rossi chose to ignore the muted snort of derision that puffed breath against his shirt.

Silent minutes passed. Rossi felt Hotch's muscles release even more. Without conscious volition, he, too, relaxed. His mind wandered, seeking distraction from the disturbing images of Aaron's childhood. Without thinking, he began to hum a melody that came to mind, and felt appropriate under the circumstances.

'Blacks and bays

'Dapples and grays

'All the pretty, little horses…'

The effect was electric.

Hotch tore himself from Rossi's loosened grip, staring at him in horrified fascination. "Why're you singing that? Where'd you hear it? Did I…" He blinked, breathing gone ragged once again.

Taken off guard, Rossi stared back for a moment while his brain reconstructed the genesis of the lullaby. He realized Hotch had no inkling how the tune had surfaced, weaving its way through the team's efforts to care for their leader and his young son.

"What's wrong? Talk to me, Aaron. What're you thinking?"

Hotch swallowed, making a determined effort to regulate his breathing. "You said at my worst I said stuff…talked in my sleep?" Rossi nodded. "Is that where you heard it?"

"No. No….I…I think I've always known it. J.J. sang it to us, and I guess that brought it back to me." Rossi decided to elaborate, hoping to give Hotch time to gather himself, and also thinking the tale of the lullaby was a nice one that would only benefit by repetition.

"Morgan told us he was sitting with you while J.J. sang Jack to sleep." Rossi smiled. "The sound was coming over the monitor. Said he turned away for a minute and when he looked back, you were out like a light." He shrugged. "We kind of joked about how maybe we could use it as a magic bullet…put you to sleep on the jet…that kind of thing."

He let his hand settle on Hotch's back again, giving an experimental rub as he tried to gage the emotional terrain. "It was all done in kindness, Aaron. No one meant to upset you. And…it's a beautiful lullaby. Especially when J.J. sings it. Kind of haunting."

"It's what _she_ used to sing. Felicia."

"I'm sorry, Aaron." Rossi reestablished a full-on hug, rocking lightly, but making sure he didn't give in to any impulse to hum melodies of questionable lineage. He took a deep breath and voiced his main fear. "Did I make a mistake forcing you to remember all this?"

"What? No!" Hotch pulled himself up. "Felicia was…the best. She deserves to be remembered."

"But you don't deserve to be hurt…to feel any more pain than life has already doled out to you."

Hotch took his time before responding. When he did, his voice was steadier. "Any pain I feel is because I loved her, and she was gone before I could tell her, or even understand what love was…what it felt like to _be_ loved." He swallowed. "She was _unique_ in my experience. I didn't have anything to compare her to, to put her into context. I didn't know people could be that nice to each other."

He lowered his head and his voice, doing what Rossi called 'that hiding thing.' Hotch's words were quiet, but shot through with an intensity he rarely displayed. "I don't wanna make that mistake again." He swallowed. "Dave, you know how I feel about _you_, right?"

Any other time, Rossi might have made Hotch explain himself, thinking it would be emotionally therapeutic. But the strange, terrible, sentimental journey into his past was more than enough for one day. So Rossi rested his chin on the back of Aaron's bowed head and matched the private tone of his voice.

"Yeah. I guess I do. But it's nice to hear, you know? And Aaron?...Right back atcha."

xxxxx

When Hotch said he needed some time alone, Rossi didn't question it.

He took the opportunity to clear away used dishes and a regrettable amount of food that should have met its destiny in Hotch's stomach. He checked on Marty and Jack, finding them immersed in the world of Disney DVDs.

When the doctor glanced up, he read in Rossi's face that something stressful had happened. Concerned, he followed him into the kitchen.

"What's wrong, Dave?"

Rossi shook his head, rinsing dishes as he reviewed all he'd learned. "I may have done a pointlessly dumb, intrusive thing, Marty." Raised brows encouraged him to continue. "I took Aaron through cognitive recall. It's something we do in the field to help witnesses remember details that're blocked by trauma and shock."

"Uh-oh. Didn't go so well?"

"It _worked_. But…" Rossi braced himself, hands gripping the counter edge. "I think it might've harmed more than helped."

"Let's have it."

So Rossi explained everything, watching the lines of Marty's face sag deeper into sympathetic sorrow with each word. When he was finished, the doctor joined him in staring out the kitchen window, seeing the past rather than the lush, expensive landscaping.

"That poor kid. It's amazing things like that go on right beneath our noses. And no one helps put a stop to it."

"Sign of the times." Rossi drew a deep breath. "But that woman was the hero of Aaron's childhood. That's for sure."

"Yeah." Marty's voice was soft. " 'Show me a hero, and I'll write you a tragedy.' F. Scott Fitzgerald said that. He was right."

Rossi nodded, distracted. "I wonder what happened to her…to Felicia. I wouldn't be surprised if someone like that made her mark someplace else, too. Not just on one sorry, little boy." He looked up when he felt Marty's elbow give him a gentle nudge.

"David Rossi, are you telling me a big, hotshot FBI agent like you doesn't have the resources to track a lady who holds her head that high and speaks out that loudly? You disappoint me, my friend." But the small grin told Rossi this was a challenge, not a final verdict in the matter of Felicia versus her life and times. He felt the irrepressible urge to pick up the gauntlet Marty'd thrown down.

"It was a long time ago. Aaron said she was old even then."

"Aaron was a child who didn't even have a sense of his _own_ age. And all adults look 'old' to little kids. Hell, if he'd seen us back then, we'd look positively _monumental_…tributes to antiquity."

Rossi's nod was slow, his voice thoughtful. "Possibly, possibly."

"And I know from experience that medical records and vital statistics were kept with pretty fair accuracy back then. We have whole departments of people converting information like that, bringing it into the digital age." He shrugged. "Couldn't hurt to look."

That brought Rossi up short. "I'm not so sure about that. I think looking back hurt Aaron; made a world of pain more real and more immediate." He gazed toward the staircase. "Think I should go ahead and only tell him if I find something? Something _good_ for a change?"

Both men considered the pros and cons of the situation in silence.

"No." Rossi answered his own question. "The last thing he needs are surprises or to think that someone he trusts is going behind his back. And I'll need Garcia." He shot a reproving glance at the doctor. "And she's about as open as they come. One look at Penelope trying to keep a secret and he'd know something was going on."

Marty nodded his agreement. "Besides, you need to ask him more about Felicia. I really _don't_ have any idea about the resources available to you, Dave. But I've seen the kind of loyalty that boy commands. I'd say devotion alone will make whoever's involved more determined to succeed than…I dunno…than your Mudge with a seemingly impenetrable Tupperware container of cookies."

Rossi's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, yeah…I know…my dog's a vandal…yours is a perfect lady…I get it."

"Just so we're clear." Marty's smug air of superiority almost made Rossi wish for some Fudge-induced damage to his personal property; something he could point to in defense of Mudgie's pastry piracy. He sighed, returning to the matter at hand.

"Okay. I guess my next step is to run this by Aaron and, if he's up for it, see if I can pull any more useable information out of him." He closed his eyes for a brief moment. "God, I wish I could fix this…fix _him_." He gave the doctor a searching look. "Do you think we're making any headway with him? Any at all?"

Marty put a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder. "I have to believe we are. I _want_ to believe that everything we're doing is leaving its mark. And someday Aaron'll surprise us and himself by putting it all together. And you…you're doing your best. Some things have their own momentum. They're like laws of nature. Immutable. Unstoppable. But like the man said: 'Show me a hero…'"

" '…and I'll write you a tragedy.' I know, Marty." Unsure of his own enthusiasm for this project, Rossi trudged toward the stairs.

Halfway up, the doctor called to him.

"Dave?" Rossi paused, looking down. "Heroes also figure prominently in all those tales that end 'happily ever after.' And Aaron's story is still a work in progress. Anything could happen. If it helps, we're just continuing what Felicia began."

Rossi considered his friend's words. When he resumed negotiating the stairs, he had the beginnings of a small, hopeful smile. And his steps were a bit lighter.

_Anything can happen._ Change was the one unavoidable, most reliable thing in life. There was always a fifty-fifty chance it could be change for the better. Aaron was way overdue for the good kind.

_And at some point I __**do**__ believe the scales have to balance themselves out. Or at least not remain so __**un**__balanced._

Despite all he'd seen and all he knew, Rossi was still a man of faith. This time he put his faith in the unpredictable reliability of change as he went to begin the exploration of, and search for Felicia, the angel of Hotch's boyhood.


	57. No Such Thing As Closure

When he entered the room, Rossi found Hotch sitting with his back against the headboard, arms wrapped around knees drawn up to his chin.

It was a posture that made him look young and vulnerable. It was a posture that made Rossi think of a child pressing himself against a clothes dryer, trying to leach its residual warmth into a body gone cold from lack of love and care. He approached with quiet concern.

"Aaron?...How we doin'?"

"Hmmm?" Hotch looked up, fully present, but emerging from deep preoccupation. He nodded. "Okay. 'M okay."

It was reminiscent enough of the 'I'm okay' mantra to make Rossi heave a sigh. Hotch noticed.

"What?"

"You really don't know when you're doing that? Keeping people at a distance? _Hiding_?" Hotch's eyes darted, casting about for reference points to help him understand his friend's frustration. Rossi saw in his baffled expression that no conscious subterfuge was involved.

"My God. You really _don't_ know when you're doing it." He shook his head. "The list of 'tells' I've got on you is growing, Aaron."

He took a seat on the bed, facing his sick guest.

"You're thinking about Felicia." Hotch nodded, eyes focusing inward again. "Me, too. And it occurs to me…we can try to find her…_if_ you want, that is."

Hotch's eyes stopped tracking some inner landscape. But when Rossi looked into them, he thought he saw something akin to fear. He drew his own conclusions.

"So you _don't_ want us to trace her?" Rossi couldn't keep a note of disappointment from creeping in. If Aaron didn't want to pursue the matter, it confirmed his suspicions that he shouldn't have delved into his friend's past and dragged Felicia to the surface.

Hotch blinked. "No. I…I'm just not sure yet. That's all."

Rossi frowned. "Are you afraid of something? Aaron?"

Resting his forehead against his knees, Hotch closed his eyes. After a deep breath, his voice was muffled. "Dave, if we really look for her, the team might get involved. At the very least Garcia will." Rossi waited, knowing the crux of the matter was about to reveal itself. "I don't want them to know all that…stuff…about my past; about growing up like that."

Rossi was keenly aware of walking a line finer than a strand of spider's silk. "Okay…Alright…" He rubbed his beard, taking a moment to profile how Hotch was presenting himself physically; folded into as small a space as such a tall man could occupy; face buried against his knees; pulled in on himself. _More than hiding. __**Worse**__ than hiding._ He felt his throat tighten. _He's ashamed. Lord God, the man's ashamed of himself for having been abused._

"Aaron…" It was the gentle, tentative voice one might use to keep a wounded animal from bolting. "Aaron, you do realize none of that was your fault, don't you?"

"Yeah." The single syllable conveyed a world of misery.

"You can't think you in any way _deserved_ what happened to you…can you?"

Hotch sniffed, raising his head. "'S my problem. No one else's."

"Awww, Aaron…it's not a problem at all. It's the past. It can't hurt you anymore if you don't give it permission to do so." Rossi scooted closer, wishing a simple touch could drain off the pain pooling in his friend's eyes.

"Look, Dave. That past is part of who I am. If you're hoping there's some kind of closure out there, lurking around the corner, just waiting for me to find it…there's not. Closure is a myth. Everything that happens to you, all the scars, all the hurt…it may change…but it doesn't disappear. The door doesn't close. You just walk further away from it, but it's still there. Still open. Still leads to the…stuff…on the other side.

"The best I can hope for is not to _inflict_ myself on my son. He's the one who matters. He's the one who has a chance to be better…to be…to be…"

"_Real_?"

Rossi dropped the word into Hotch's tirade with the finality of a stone hitting bottom. It put a stop to the speech that was coming from the depths of Aaron's damage. It made him halt, feeling the effects of using more energy than his still-ill body could supply. And maybe it was that feeling of depletion that let him admit his worst to his best friend.

"Yeah. 'Real.' Jack has a chance. It's too late for me. I can move further away from it all, but I can't move past it, Dave. I'll get older, not better. That's who…_what_…I am. And I don't want the whole team to know."

The two men stared into each other's eyes.

When Rossi's hand took a place alongside Hotch's cheek, it was as much to keep him focused, as to comfort him.

"I've got some news for you, Aaron." He held his gaze steady. "Your team already knows."

Rossi shook his head. "Why do you think they staged that intervention?" His passionate, Italian nature began to build to a temper. "Do you have _any_ idea how much people care about you? It isn't normal for co-workers to do that, Aaron. It's because these people who know more about human behavior, and human scars, and human cruelty, who know _you_…don't _just_ care about you. They go one better. These people _love_ you. And if you can't see that, then I'm gonna say Garcia was right the first time: you're a stupid, stupid man. Which, by the way, is an outburst indicative of how much that woman _hates_ seeing someone she _loves_ in pain."

Rossi's fingers gripped the stubborn chin before him. "You _have_ been through a lot worse than most. You're broken. We understand that. But you're beautiful, too. And we _do_ see all the damage inside you. Not because you don't hide it well, but because we're _that_ good at what we do. And we don't want you to change. We just want you to stop feeling you need to hide.

"We've already seen your twisted insides, Aaron. If you want to keep hiding from us…fine. But realize it's not keeping you 'safe.' It's just keeping you alone."

Both men were breathing heavily.

Rossi withdrew his hand, letting it rest on Hotch's knees still huddled up against his chest.

"Anything you want to say, Aaron?"

Hotch swallowed. "I'm scared."

"I know. We all know." Rossi studied the gaunt face. "You want to move on? Try to find Felicia? Maybe put a little more distance between that open door in your past and the rest of your life?"

It took a moment, during which Rossi cobbled together a fervent prayer on his friend's behalf. But finally…Hotch nodded.

"Okay then. I'll call Garcia."

xxxxxxx

Penelope felt as though bird's wings were fluttering inside her, making her heart soar.

The whole team…all of them…knew what they saw was the aftermath of something terrible that had formed their boss. They couldn't decipher the initiating factor. But the aftermath was also…a wonderful man.

No one talked about it, but everyone knew there was something in their Unit Chief's background that he kept under lock and key.

Now Garcia was being told she could take on the role of locksmith.

And it was the kind of search she _loved_.

The kind where she could hear doubt overlaying hope in Rossi's voice as he asked her to see what she could find out about a black woman named Felicia…no last name…who worked for one of the neighbors in the vicinity of Hotch's boyhood home.

Garcia's intuition told her this was a quest that could soothe, as easily as damage, a man who devoted himself to helping others, but whose own life was a struggle. Hotch's illness lowered his defenses and made his inner disarray so much more painfully clear.

"I'll get right on it, sir." Garcia beamed a smile brighter than her eyeshadow.

First order of business: find anyone who had lived anywhere within a one block radius of the address listed on the hospital records of Hotch's birth. Rossi had said Boss-man didn't know anything but the one name…Felicia…and the fact that this woman had worked for someone whose property was within shouting distance of Hotchner Senior's front porch.

Garcia licked her fuchsia lips, pushing her shimmering rainbow glass frames higher on the bridge of her nose.

_Ready or not, Boss-man, here we go…_

_Ready or not, Felicia, here I come…_


	58. Inventive Artists

When Penelope Garcia worked, all sorts of images flashed through her mind.

She saw bolts of lightning jagging through a miasma of bits and bytes, hitting infinitesimal targets that blazed with significance once struck.

She saw undulating sheets of glitter filtering down from immeasurable heights, accumulating in tell-tale drifts over data revealing itself via multiple hits and cross-references.

She saw inquisitive creatures thirsty for knowledge gathering in flocks and herds, drawn by uncanny intuition along the scented trail of discovery.

Quite simply, she saw herself as a superhero, digital weapons flying with phenomenal accuracy; cape-of-many-colors blowing out behind her as she sped upon her mission. And her current mission was all the sweeter because it was on behalf of the man who'd given her the chance to discover just how high she could fly in the first place. If Hotch-rocket was hurting and out of fuel, she'd turn the world upside down and inside out looking for whatever he needed to boost himself aloft again.

Rossi's call to action had come at an opportune time. No case had presented itself. The team was staying local until called out, wading through paperwork and consults until then. Without the urgency of fieldwork, Garcia could devote whole hours to her search for The Lady Felicia, Mistress of Mystery.

She was immersed in her quest, enjoying every moment. Which is why she startled a good six inches out of her seat when the voice like melted chocolate spoke right beside her ear.

"Hey, Baby Girl, whatcha doin'?"

"_DEREK!_"

Morgan jumped back, more alarmed than the brightly-hued tech analyst glaring at him from her sequined nest of splendor…a workstation that had once been efficiently utilitarian until Garcia imposed her personal standards of décor on it.

"What?!"

"Don't _do_ that!" Garcia turned back to her screens, simmering with the indignity of an artist who'd been interrupted during the creative act. "_EVER_ again. Or I'll…I'll…I'll post the images of you I've photoshopped from my private collection. They'll be on Twitter…Instagram…Tumblr…Facebook…you name it…. Sneak up on me again and I'll make them _unavoidable_ on an international scale. The _world_ will see a _new_ Derek Morgan."

"So long as it's not a _nude_ Derek Morgan, I can handle it, Mama."

Garcia's arch look made him swallow and take a step back.

"Ohhhh…my beautiful, bronze masterpiece, you are frighteningly naïve." He'd rarely heard a voice so sinister. "What the mind of Penelope can conceive, the digital arts can achieve. Remember that. And don't tempt me."

Morgan's eyes had wandered back to the bank of monitors. "I was just gonna ask you if you wanted to grab some lunch. J.J. and Prentiss took Pretty Boy shopping. Seems geniuses don't understand one pair of shoes won't last you the rest of your life. Even if they're your favorite hightops ever." His voice took on a plaintive note. "So I'm all on my own. But…." His glance fell on the screen displaying Hotch's medical records as a boy. "…Hey…What the hell are you up to, Mama?"

Garcia's stomach flip-flopped. She hadn't been told that the search for Felicia Somebody was confidential. Not exactly. But, still…she knew it was. The deep part of her soul that made her such a formidable friend knew…just _knew_…that this was a private matter for her Lord And Liege.

"G-a-r-c-i-a?" Morgan's trained skills of observation had taken in the various displays with professional speed and accuracy. It was too late to minimize or close anything.

"I'm busy, Chocolate Thunder. You'll have to eat by yourself, poor baby." Her voice was prim and crisp as she closed down screen after screen, despite knowing Morgan had already gleaned an eyeful.

Morgan stood back, considering the evidence. The banter in his tone of voice disappeared. "You can't tell me what's going on, Penelope?"

"Can't. Won't. Sorry."

"Okay." He dropped a light touch on her shoulder. "You know I'm here if you need me. And tell that to Hotch or Rossi or…_whoever's_ pulling your strings on this." Lacquered nails tapped and he knew she was anxious to get back to work. "Soooo…can I bring you anything for lunch, Baby Girl?"

The smile Garcia gave Morgan was wide; full of gratitude for tacit understanding and outright support. "Tuna salad?"

"You got it."

"Derek?"

"Hmmmm?"

"Thank you."

He winked. She watched him leave before bringing up her screens again, thinking that, really, she worked with the best bunch of people in the whole entire…_galaxy_…

xxxxxxxx

Marty watched Rossi head for the Scotch. He waited until a glass had been poured and a sip taken before speaking.

"Everything go okay up there, Dave?"

He received an ungracious grunt in response.

"I need to check him over…take his temperature…that kind of thing. Any rough edges you want me to try and smooth out?"

Rossi took another, larger swallow. "I called Garcia. Got the search for Felicia underway. But…" He glanced back the way he'd come. "…we can't fix what's wrong with him. Because, yes, he's broken, but nothing's _wrong_ with him. And he's the only one who doesn't know that."

"Yeah, but we're not trying to fix him. He's the author of his own pain. We're just trying to ease it a little. Opening up some of those cracks he needs…to let light inside…to let the pressure out before he explodes…and to let other stuff escape so the rest of us can enjoy what he's got inside that he keeps under such tight guard."

"He's scared, Marty. And I don't blame him. Whatever we find, it's gonna touch him so deep, good or bad, it's gonna hurt." Rossi swirled the liquor in his glass, studying the amber ripples. His voice was small when he spoke again. "I hate it when he hurts."

The doctor glanced toward the living room where Jack was still singing along with a large, bouncy, Disney lion.

"Well, I know one thing that'll help him put it all in perspective. How 'bout you give Jack a bath and get him ready for a nap? I'll check out his Daddy and then we'll put them together and let them be each other's medicine. Sound good?"

Rossi smiled. "Sounds great." He brandished his drink. "I'll just finish this first."

"Okay. See you guys up there." Marty plodded toward the stairs, already thinking he'd have to wipe off some of Aaron's leopard spots so he could judge the progress of the measles rash. But Jack had been leopardizing everything in sight. The doctor was sure he wouldn't mind re-doing his father's pelt.

xxxxxx

Little Jack Hotchner _had_ been enjoying the stencils and washable markers Prentiss had supplied. So much so, that he'd nearly worn out the favored bright pink and lavender ones; the colors that put him most in mind of raspberries.

But Jack was an industrious boy. One who already looked for ways to solve his own dilemmas before asking grown-ups for help.

While he and Dr. Palmer had been watching T.V., and talking, and playing with Mudgie and Fudge, he'd seen some brand new, fresh markers Poppi kept in a container on the counter by his old-fashioned, land line phone. Jack was sure Poppi wouldn't mind if he borrowed one or two.

And there was one that was an even better, brighter, raspberry color than any of the ones Ms. Prentiss had given him. So when he was told to gather the toys he wanted to bring upstairs to play with Daddy after his bath, Jack included the vibrant red, indelible Sharpie in his stash.

He could hardly wait to see how it would look on Daddy.


End file.
